


Sussex Neighbours

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Alternating, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 22,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Holmes & Watson being neighbourly in Sussex.Chapters stand alone. Holmes/Watson. ACD. Prompts from DW Inspiring Tables: 50 Prompts.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 241
Kudos: 67





	1. Daisy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson helps Daisy, a maid who is in more trouble than she thinks. 
> 
> **Warning:** The plot is from Agatha Christie's _A Pocketful of Rye_ and is **spoilers** for that work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Inspiring Tables: 50 Prompts: .21 Daisy.

“Mister Holmes, here!”

The young Jacob caught his breath and thrust a note in my hand.

“You’re to return with me to the Fortescue place at once, sir.” He did everything but salute. Really, the Sussex countryside was not the metropolis of London, but I believe the spirit of my urban Irregulars lived on in this rural lad, who shifted anxiously from foot to foot. He had the fastest dogcart in the area, a claim which he defended at an annual race among his peers.

The urgency in Jacob’s voice and the underlining in Watson’s note could not be dismissed. I was out of my beekeeper’s garb in a flash and collecting the strange items requested by my faithful companion of so many, many years.

I confess as Jacob and I and his speedy mares hurried along the uneven path, the farmhouses and the cottages and the fields of wildflowers whipping past us, an old frisson gripped me, that of the hansom cab and rushing into danger.

“Ah, there he is,” said Watson. He was seated in a quiet, dark corner with a young, pretty maid. “Now, you know that Mister Holmes is a world-famous detective, and he has deal with all kind of problems, from those of poorest widows to those of the kings of the land, and he has brought, on my request, the strongest truth-telling element there is.”

Now Watson always claimed that the stage lost a fine actor when I decided to devote myself to crime-solving. There may be some truth in that, for I took my cue without blinking.

“Here you go, my dear.”

With gloved hands, I held out the glass jar. In it, per request, I had placed four sugar cubes.

“Now, Daisy, I suggest that you use these,” Watson took the jar reverently, as if it held the crown jewels, “and not the ones that your young man Albert told you to put in Colonel Fortescue’s tea this afternoon. “What do you say?”

“Do you really think so?” the young woman asked with a sniff. She looked up from me to Watson with large, ovine eyes.

“Yes, my dear,” I assured her.

She handed what she had to me, a white substance in a bit of crumpled waxed paper. I slipped the whole thing into the envelope which was tucked discreetly inside my jacket pocket.

“Albert says the Colonel must be made to tell the truth about the Blackbird Mine, about how he tricked Albert’s father and deprived Albert’s family of their rightful fortune.”

“Albert’s coming round after tea, is he?” Watson prompted.

She shrugged. “He said he might.”

Watson and I exchanged a look. He inclined his head toward the young woman’s legs, not with any prurient motive, but for me to take a gander at her stockings, which were, in my estimation of such things, undoubtedly her best stockings.

“Daisy, you wouldn’t, by any chance, have a photograph of your young man?” I asked.

She sniffed again. “Al don’t like photos, but a girl has to have something. I got Maggie from school, who’s ever so clever and good as sketching, to draw him for me.”

“We’d like to see that picture, if you don’t mind fetching for us, and then you’d best get back to work.”

When she’d left, I whispered to Watson. “So, that’s why I have one of your precious bulbs in my other pocket.”

He grinned. “I thought I would get us invited to tea. Mrs. Fortescue has been envying my Narcissus for quite some time.”

“How neighbourly of you. And of them if the charade works.”

Daisy returned. She showed us the drawing.

I studied it. So did Watson.

Then we gave it back to Daisy, and she left us.

“I think we need to be here to make certain that Albert doesn’t harm Daisy when he finds out what she put in Colonel’s tea. I don’t know where this business about Blackbird Mines comes in, but I’ll be next year’s tomatoes that what’s in your pocket is poison.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But I think perhaps the Blackbird Mine business is a bit of blind. Did anything strike you about that picture?”

“Not particularly.”

“Take away the heavy beard, and I think there is a resemblance to the old colonel.”

Watson’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t mean that Albert is in reality young Lancelot Fortescue, the black sheep of the family who went off to Kenya and has never been heard of since?”

“Where did Daisy meet Albert?”

“Hops harvest. That’s a bit far from the Serengeti.”

“He’s not a local lad?”

“No, I don’t think he’s ever visited her here. It’s just been letters.”

“If he bore a murderous grudge against his father and planned to stick the blame on poor Daisy…”

“He’d have to do away with his older brother Percival, too. Or perhaps he’s in on it, and they split the old man’s fortune.”

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” I muttered. “And what impunity if not for us…”

“But wait, Holmes, has Daisy never seen a photograph of this Lancelot? They might have them lying about, black sheep or not. Wouldn’t she recognise her clever Albert?”

“Perhaps when Colonel Fortescue disowned his second son, he eliminated any reminders. Or perhaps the beard is enough disguise. Our Daisy doesn’t seem to be the most observant of misses.”

“True, but, oh, Holmes, when all this blows up, we must give Daisy a position with us, at least for a while. I heard her mention of an elderly spinster who lives in Hampshire somewhere. She trained Daisy as a maid and is apparently held in high esteem by her. I think I shall write to her at once. She knows this girl, and when the whole truth comes out, Daisy will need someone.”

“Has Daisy no family?” I asked

Watson shook his head ruefully.

“Well,” I said, “she has one now. Here, let’s use Narcissus to guide Daisy out of the thorny weeds!”


	2. Tulip (Gen.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes finds a puzzle in an ill neighbour's ramblings. 
> 
> Inspired by Alexandre Dumas' _The Black Tulip_. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables .23 Tulip

“An early supper tonight, Holmes, I will be going to see Missus Gryphus again.”

“Doctor Shepherd is still on holiday?”

“Yes, and the poor lady is not doing well at all. Do you know that in her delirium, she keeps talking about growing a black tulip?”

“Indeed? That is curious.”

“Yes, the idea plagues her something dreadful. The soil, the light, the temperature, all the aspects related to the cultivation of this plant. And someone named Cornelius. It must be some event from her past.”

“She has no relations that you could ask about it?”

“None at all as far as I know. None that I could even write to. Which is a grave pity because that greenhouse of hers was a splendid specimen. She kept it, like she kept everything in her world, meticulously organised and tidy. And since her illness, it’s been totally abandoned. She was so adamant in her ravings, would you believe that, in a quiet moment, when she was sleeping peacefully, I actually snuck out to the greenhouse and searched for this black tulip? I knew it was madness. I didn’t find so much as a bulb of any tulip, much less a black one.”

“She has no lucid moments in which to question her?”

“No, unfortunately, and I haven’t had much success in questioning the nurses about her at other times.” Watson shook his head ruefully. “And unless I am much mistaken, this Cornelius was a bad lot. She says he was executed.”

“Really? Cornelius? The name doesn’t ring any bells for me. It rather sounds like something out of one of your lurid novels.”

“That must be it, but her distress is very real, Holmes. She wasn’t a fanciful woman before now.” Watson sighed. “One of those mysteries.”

* * *

“Holmes! What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message? The night nurse will be late, and I am planning to stay with Missus Gryphus until she arrives.”

“Yes, I got your message. I came to bring you some sustenance,” I raised the hamper in my hand, “and provide you some relief if possible.”

“Oh, thank you. I can’t possibly leave until the night nurse arrives, but,” he covered his yawning mouth with his hand, “I do appreciate the company. Come in, come in.”

* * *

“Finally, we are off. Thank you, Holmes, for keeping me company. I shall be glad when Doctor Shepherd returns. I am not so spry.”

“Not at all, not at all. Watson, will you begrudge me a solo trip to London?”

“How could I? By the moonlight, I can see that old look in your eye. The game is afoot, eh?”

“There is a slim possibility. It is not a criminal game, but rather a personal puzzle. And it may come to nothing, but what is a retirement for, if not indulging one’s caprices within one’s means? I should not like to say anything unless I meet with at least a morsel of success.”

“Very well. You leave tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“With that little notebook of yours in your pocket?”

“Ah, you spied that, did you?”

“I see and I observe, Holmes. You taught me that.”

I twined my arms in Watson’s. He paused for me to kiss his temple, and then we continued the journey back to our cottage, arm in arm.

* * *

I was to find Watson again at Missus Gryphus’ bedside for days later, but I did not come alone.

“Cornelius!” the old lady shrieked, her eyes wide, her arms extended.

Watson quickly moved to the side, allowing my companion to approach the bed, in his arms a bundle of the darkest tulips that England’s hothouses could afford.

“My dear Rosa. I thought you were lost. I thought I would only see you again in the next life.”

“Father was a beast, wasn’t he?”

“None of it matters now.”

Watson crept out of the room, and he and I retreated to the garden.

“Sherlock Holmes, finder of lost loves!”

Age had not withered nor custom staled the effect of Watson’s ejaculations of wonder.

“I am surprised that you didn’t recognise the origin of Missus Gryphus’ ramblings, but I found it on her bookshelf while you were napping the other night. _The Black Tulip_ is a novel by Alexandre Dumas, and its plot centres on the cultivation of the eponymous flower. The protagonists are a Rosa Gryphus and a man named Cornelius who is imprisoned and almost executed.”

“But that Cornelius isn’t fictional, Holmes!”

“That man’s name isn’t Cornelius, either, by the way. Cornelius is a lover’s nickname that a young Rosa Gryphus gave him. While you were napping, I did some snooping amongst her copy of _The Black Tulip_. In it were the clues to the puzzle. There was a dedication as well as various notations made within the margins, even the scrap of a letter, all of which told the story of the lady, a common enough story of young love thwarted by a father. Also, that volume, along with several others, bore the distinctive bookplate of a London bookshop, which still stands. After two days of search, I found him, her Cornelius. I feared for his own wellbeing when I told him my mission and that Rosa Gryphus was still alive, but he rallied, and he and I spent all of yesterday hunting down the darkest tulips to be had this time of year. The blooms are, in fact, aubergine, but in the light of the sickroom, such distinctions are meaningless.”

“Those dark flowers and their bearer have brought more colour to that woman’s face than I have yet to see. Oh, Holmes, maybe she will recover. I had my doubts, but now…”

“Yes, I have a pleasant vision of the two of them restoring her greenhouse to its former glory, but if nothing else, they have a lovely reunion which is worth more than the hundred thousand guilders offered for Dumas’ black tulip of fiction.”

“Thanks to you, Sherlock Holmes.”

I squeezed his hand. “Thanks to us.”


	3. Strawberry Trifle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson has more strawberries than he knows what to do with. 
> 
> For the Inspiring Table prompt .26 strawberry

I woke up that morning with the determination of a Christian before the lions.

I was going to make a trifle.

Holmes had returned from a three-day sojourn with a master beekeeper laden with the most generous quantity of strawberries I’d ever seen. Much expounding followed about the role the hives of his fellow apiarian had played in ample harvest.

I was, I confess, overwhelmed at first, but then I began to sort them.

The very best strawberries were designated for immediate consumption. The most bruised were set aside for preserving. Even so, a large portion remained.

That’s when I decided to make a trifle.

Two trifles, to be precise, for when trying something new in the kitchen I always set aside the first trial for learning and making errors.

I had gone to the village and purchased everything I needed the previous day, and I knew Holmes would spend most of the day with his hives, applying what he’d learned. Indeed, he took his ploughman’s lunch in the shed and only poked his head in the kitchen in the afternoon to announce that he was going to the village himself to return some volumes at the lending library and to ask if I wanted anything.

I grunted, and he knew better than to press.

The first trifle disappointed, as expected, but it was a small disappointment in a small bowl. I set it aside covered in muslin and marched on to bigger things.

* * *

I had just put the finishing touches on my masterpiece when I heard the front door open.

“Holmes?”

“Yes, I’m sorry I’m later than I expected,” said a disembodied voice. “Did you worry?”

“No,” I replied truthfully. “What news on the Rialto?”

“The Mason place burned to the ground last night.”

“No!”

Holmes appeared at the door. “I stopped by in case it was—”

I shot him a look.

He blushed. “—I mean to say, just to ensure it wasn’t arson.” He added with a tinge of rue. “It wasn’t.”

“They have four—”

“Five,” Holmes corrected. “The infants are twins.”

“—small children.”

“Yes, they are staying at Willow’s Bark for the time being.”

“But the Willows also have—”

“A brood.”

“Hmm.” I looked at the enormous bowl, the largest we possessed, and frowned.

“Oh, you made it!” exclaimed Holmes, looking over my shoulder. “How gorgeous, Watson! Mrs. Hudson would be proud. I see I will need to work up an appetite.”

“Holmes,” I said gravely as I went to the first trifle. “Would you be just as pleased with this?” I removed the muslin.

He looked and cocked his head. Then he looked in my eyes. “Of course. Shall I telephone for young Jacob to come and fetch that one for Willow’s Bark?”

“I think we should take it ourselves. Perhaps there’s something else we can do.”

Holmes smiled softly. “And by the time we return, I shall be craving trifle,” he stuck his finger in the cream and licked the tip, “and a soft-hearted trifler.”


	4. Cherry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes & Watson receive a bottle of cherry brandy from Devon. 
> 
> For DW Inspiring Tables prompt 027. cherry.

“Something interesting in the post?” I called.

“Yes, indeed,” answered Holmes. “Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, well…”

I entered the kitchen just as Holmes was removing an unlabeled bottle of dark liquid from a box and a nest of packing wool within that box. “Special delivery. A bottle of cherry brandy, compliments of young Mister Frankland of Lafter Hall, Devon.”

I whistled my approval. Holmes handed the bottle over to me for inspection, then he picked up a letter which lay open on the table.

“Made from Devon’s own wild cherries?” I asked excitedly.

“None other,” said Holmes, but his voice bore the vagueness of distraction as he wandered towards the sitting room, still reading the letter in his hand. “He’s, uh, as much a devotee of the telescope as his late uncle was, but he prefers to point his overhead instead of at the neighbours.”

“Astronomer you mean?”

“Yes, I believe young Frankland is something of an expert in his field. His name appears in certain scholarly journals frequently enough, at least. I have been corresponding with him for some years though we only met once, at his uncle’s funeral.”

“It must’ve been a very _cordial_ correspondence,” I said, holding up the bottle and waggling my eyebrows.

I waited. The fact that no retort to my pun issued from the sitting room surprised me. I set the bottle on the table and peeked my head in.

Holmes was seated in his armchair. He was still reading the letter. It seemed he was re-reading it. His brow was on the point of furrowing.

“Something wrong, Holmes?”

“Not necessarily.” He took a deep breath and let the hand clasping the letter fall to his lap. “Frankland says there have been sightings of a gigantic hound on the moor.”

It was a testament to the many years that Holmes and I had been together that we exchanged not a single word for a very long time after this.

Holmes handed me the letter. While I read it, he moved past me into the kitchen. I heard him, in the background, putting two glasses on the table, uncorking the bottle, and pouring a generous portion in each vessel.

We raised our glasses to each other and drank.

It was divine. Sweet, tart. A gorgeous hue.

After the first sip, Holmes and I moved to the table, setting the crate in which the bottle had been delivered on the floor and the letter which had accompanied it between us. We sat across from each other and drank in silence.

When our glasses were empty, I said,

“I’m not going to say it.”

Holmes’s lips quirked into a smile. “Neither am I. Not when I see that familiar light in your eyes.”

_We aren’t too old._

_Not by half. And not together._

I leaned over and kissed him.

“We’ll leave by the first train in the morning,” said Holmes when the kiss broke.

“I’ll pack,” I replied, licking my lips in sweet anticipation.


	5. Stars.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes takes Watson out for some midnight stargazing.
> 
> Relates to events in the previous chapter (Chapter 4).

“My dear Holmes, you are becoming an absolute romantic in your dotage. Dear me, a midnight romp abroad to gaze at the stars.”

“Mind the slope, Watson.” Holmes offered me a steadying hand as I lowered myself to the blanket beside him. “Our time in Devon with the young Frankland the astronomer has given me a new appreciation for celestial bodies, and according to him, the show tonight should be rather something.” He opened his satchel. “A toast?”

“To new tricks and old dogs, or should I say, old hounds?”

“Sleuthhounds or the Baskerville variety?” Holmes poured what, by its aroma, I instantly recognised as Frankland’s homemade cherry brandy into to two tin mugs.

“Both. To star-gazing.”

The rims of our mugs touched, and we drank.

I sighed after the first long sip. “We’re right to take advantage of the late summer weather. We won’t be able to do this for too much longer. It will be too cold and damp.”

Holmes hummed.

I looked about and frowned. “Are we near the Thurston place?”

“Yes, it’s just over there.” Holmes pointed with his mug.

“I don’t suppose there’s anyone about to ask for permission, not until they return from holiday.”

“I think they’ll be understanding.” Holmes checked his pocket watch. “Not too much longer if Frankland’s calculations are correct. I’ve brought a small telescope. He’s given me some criteria if I wish to invest in a more serious instrument. The next time I’m in London, perhaps I will.”

“And to think when we met you didn’t know that the earth revolved round the sun!”

“In my defense, I had to make an extraordinary amount of room in the attic of my brain for all the information I was gathering about my new fellow lodger.”

“Oh, you brandy-tongued devil.”

He hummed and kissed me.

We finished our drinks. I extinguished the lantern, and we laid down on the blanket, snuggling as best we could on our backs, looking up.

“I know why the story-tellers of old were so inspired,” I murmured.

The cascade of lights erupted.

I sucked in a sharp breath of surprise and delight.

It was like a pyrotechnical display, made all the more wondrous because it was natural and real. I wanted to scream or clap or cheer, but Holmes quickly put a hand over my mouth and, in hardly audible tones, bid me to be still. He produced the telescope and aimed it toward the sky.

His hand was clasped in mine, our fingers twined.

I thought about making a wish, but then I realised there wasn’t anything I desired. 

I remained still and silent for a very long time after the shower of light had faded. I was simply enjoying a lovely night.

Finally, I looked at Holmes. His telescope was no longer pointed up but rather over.

“Hol--?”

He put a hand over my mouth and brought his lips to my ear. “My suspicion was correct: there was to be a robbery attempt tonight at the Thurston residence.”

“Hmmpgh!”

“I know you’re not armed, Watson. I am not planning to thwart the thieves ourselves. I alerted Constable Walsh, and he and Constable Oates should be on the scene promptly.”

“Hmmpgh!”

“Who says it can’t be both? Romantic star-gazing and crime prevention?” Just then, the sound of an authoritative voice carried from a distance. Holmes and I both listened. “See? They’re making their arrests.”

Holmes finally took his hand off my mouth. He turned and made to refill our mugs. “Another toast?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “this one to tigers never, ever, ever changing their stripes!”


	6. Planet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early one morning, Watson waxes poetic about his 'evening star.'
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .19 planet.

“He has said that I am his whetstone, his fixed point in a changing age, but if I am his polestar, then he, more assuredly, is my evening star."

I coughed.

“You may, or may not, know this, but the evening star shines brightest in the moments just after the sun has set. It reflects the last rays of sunlight. Thus, Holmes first appeared to me at a time in my life when things were very dark, indeed. He appeared and changed the course of events for me. We shared a home and he shared with me his energy, his curiosity, and his unique outlook on the world. He was kind. He gave me a purpose when I thought I had none. He gave me respect when most of the world had turned its back, and friendship when that, too, was scarce.”

“My life darkened again, and he reappeared. Now, you could argue that he himself was responsible for some of that particular sunset, but not all of it. He reappeared and shone once more. And my life is and has been wonderfully rich for knowing and having known him and spent so many years in his company.”

I sighed.

“And, lastly, he is my evening star because the evening star is not a star at all, it’s a planet. I am not certain he knows that, and if he ever knew it, he has perhaps forgotten it to make way for other, more important things, but that’s neither here nor there. The evening star is, in fact, the planet Venus, named for the goddess of love.”

“And Holmes, well, he is love.”

I shifted on my bench and looked behind me.

“Holmes, just how long have you been standing there?”

Holmes stood leaning in the threshold, grinning. “Long enough.”

“I observe you have two mugs.”

“I do.”

Holmes approached and passed one to me. “What ever has you up at this hour in this place?”

“You had concerns about the sweetness of the last sample, so I thought I would inspire your charges,” I waved at the hives, “by whispering sweet nothings in their, uh, collective ears.”

Holmes chuckled. “I never want to hear another disparaging remark about my descent into romanticism in my dotage from you, Doctor Watson. If I do, I shall definitely recall this moment to your attention.”

It was my turn to chuckle. “You read them _The News of the World_.” I sipped my tea. “I don’t suppose my words could hurt.”

“No. I think it’s a lovely gesture and an even lovelier sentiment expressed. Your evening star. I like it. It’s a planet. Hmm?”

“Holmes, did you not know, really?”

He made a noncommittal noise. In those early days in Baker Street I had to rid my attic of a brain of so much information to accommodate all the very important data I was collecting about my fellow lodger.”

I smiled. “You forgot about planets because of me?”

“And was the better for it.”


	7. Chocolate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A neighbour consults Holmes on a delicate matter.
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables: 50 Prompts Table: prompt .26 chocolate.

“The garden is in top form, yes?”

“Good morning to you, too,” I grumbled as I shuffled into the kitchen, adding rather waspishly, “The hives up and buzzing?”

“Could you go to town for about four hours today, say, ten to two?”

“What?”

“Or just be somewhere else? Not here.”

“Shall I dig myself a shallow grave and lie in it?

Holmes shot me a look. “Watson.”

“Holmes!”

“How about I make you some chocolate? Will that sweeten you up?”

I stared at the dark brown tin beside the sink. “Where in heavens did that come from?”

“London. Day before yesterday.”

“No, chocolate is for children and old ladies and foreigners. Put the kettle on and explain yourself like an honest Englishman.”

Holmes replied in a falsetto. “’I can’t explain myself for, you see, I’m not—‘”

I silenced him with a look.

Chastened, he coughed. “Very well. Mrs. Lycomingston is coming at ten o’clock this morning to consult me.”

“The chocolate is for her.”

“Yes. I really wish you would take some. I need the practice making it.”

“Very well. Have we any—?”

“Stale buns, yes.”

We shared a look, then Holmes rose and went to the stove and began to mess about.

I studied his back, then I went to him and pressed my lips to the point between his shoulder blades.

“I suppose I could potter about the village. See the baker, the butcher, and the candlestick maker.”

“I would avoid the lending library. I think Mrs. Maxwell has you in her sights.”

I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “Shall I ask what Mrs. Lycomingston’s delicate problem is?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

I smiled. “That doesn’t mean you don’t know.”

Holmes looked over his shoulder. “After.”

“As you wish.”

* * *

“Thank you for sending young Jacob to fetch me. How did it go?”

“We had chocolate. Then I took her round your garden, and she pronounced on everything in it.”

“And then?”

Holmes sighed heavily. “And then I had the dubious task of informing her in minute and devastating detail how Madame Zaidee was creating the illusion of being able to communicate with her deceased son.”

“Oh, Holmes.”

“Your garden is in top form, by the way. The late roses, the chocolate, I did everything I could think of to make it as sweet as scene as possible because…”

“…it is a very bitter pill to swallow. Did she accept it?”

“I think so. She’s given the lady a lot of money, Watson.”

“Yes, I expect she has, but she must’ve had her doubts, or she wouldn’t have come to you at all.”

He nodded.

I took his hands in mine and squeezed them. “You did the right thing. Remember Mary Sutherland?”

“Will you ever let me forget her?”

We stared at each other.

“Shall I make you some chocolate, Holmes?”

“I sent the tin home with her.”

“Good. Tea?”

“Yes, and then what say you to a nap?”

“Together?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say forget the tea. Come.”


	8. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes rescues a kite.
> 
> For the DW. Inspiring Tables prompt .37 wind.

I was beyond the cautioning stage, beyond the threatening stage, beyond the incredulous stage.

I had arrived at the hold-my-breath-until-it’s-over stage, and I was about to tip into the bargaining-with-Providence-for-favours stage.

Holmes, no longer in his schoolboy years, no longer, even, in his school _master_ years, was climbing a tree to the recover a kite.

Stalwartly he made his way up to the limb where the kite was snagged. He deftly loosed it from its snare and then, Dear God, Dear God, Dear God, was making his way back down.

Finally, he reached the lowest bough.

“Catch, Watson.”

He dropped his trove into my upraised hands, and he dropped himself, with enviable cat-like grace, onto the ground.

“Holmes.”

Over the years, I have honed the capacity to make that one word say all the contradictory things I hold in my heart.

Holmes smiled in a way that said he was ridiculously pleased with himself and took the broken kite from me. “The storm has done some damage to her, but it is nothing that cannot be repaired. Come, Watson, this is a new project worthy of careful attention.”

It proved to be a new project for Holmes alone. I did not see him the whole of the afternoon. He was buried in the potting shed and only emerged as I went to ask him if he cared for any supper.

“Look, Watson.” He held up the repaired kite.

I took it and studied it. “You have done an admirable job, Holmes.”

“We shall test her tomorrow, weather permitting.”

Morning came, and I had not forgotten Holmes’s words.

“What are we going to do today, my dear?” I asked with a knowing look.

Holmes hummed as if in consideration, then he said firmly. “This morning I have to go into the village and make some inquiries, but this afternoon, I think you and I should go fly a kite.”

And so it happened.

Holmes and I had an early luncheon and set out. We were forced to walk about an hour before we reached a suitable spot, and then we let her go.

“Oh, Holmes!”

The wind was perfect, and the kite lifted like a dream.

I felt the years fade away with every gust, every dip, every spiral of the lovely tail.

Holmes and I took turns holding the spool, navigating her, but the joy produced was catching, and we were both soon grinning, and whooping, like schoolboys.

Eventually, Holmes reeled her in, and as he did so, I heard young voices in the distance.

“That will be Tommy Rutherford,” said Holmes.

“Who is Tommy Rutherford?”

“He is the owner of this,” said Holmes holding the kite. “I deduced the kite’s ownership based on the string, the wood, where we found it, and a smear of raspberry jam left on the material.

I had to laugh. “Holmes, you are still amazing!”

His eyes shone. “I am still amazing only because you are still amazed, Watson.”

“Nonsense!”

“I sent a message to his teacher where he might come after school to reclaim it. Selfishly, I wanted a little time with her myself.”

“I’m glad.”

Tommy and his boisterous gang of associates were soon upon us. Holmes presented the young man with his prodigal kite, and he and I remained with boys for a while.

We watched them fly it. Then we headed for home.

“Holmes…”

“Yes, I was thinking we might craft one for our own use.”

“Sounds like a project for a rainy day. Or a windy one.”

“Yes!” cried Holmes, grabbing my hat as it blew off my head.


	9. Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson is surprised by the last of the summer storms. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Table prompt .38 Thunder.

Watson has waxed poetic many a time in print about my powers of concentration. These days, I lament I have no public means to wax poetic about his, which are most manifest when he is labouring in his Eden, as I like to call it.

Left to his own devices, Watson will often work in the garden from before dawn until after dusk without pause, moving from task to task to task with the determination of the most industrious of my hive. This devotion is never more apparent than in the last days of summer when the strangle hold of August is behind us and the crisp autumn morns are still in the offing.

It is a savouring time, savouring the harvest, the late blooms, and the lingering warmth.

It is also a time of preparation for cooler days.

A busy time, an in-between time.

There is disappointment, too. Watson no longer removes his shirt and works in his vest or bare-chested, but his skin, what I can see of it, is still bronze, and it reminds me of the early days when he was brown as a nut from the Afghan sun.

I spot the dark clouds on the far horizon. I look at Watson, but he does not look at me. Or at the clouds.

I go inside. I go to the shed.

I return to my work at the hives.

I don’t think Watson looks up at the sky, or over at me, at all. Not once.

* * *

The hour is well after luncheon, treading on teatime.

Watson is still at his toil.

The dark clouds are now directly overhead.

And then, it comes, the first crack of thunder.

It is not a soft rumble nor is it in a gentle portend in the distance.

It is here. It is now.

It declares, with natural majesty: Storm!

I look over. I meet Watson’s alarmed gaze.

He looks so comically surprised I bite my cheek not to laugh.

But then I am not laughing at all.

Two big, fat drops of rain hit my arm.

And then we are running as fast as two of our age can run.

We meet at the shed.

“Holmes!”

Watson says my name so many different ways. If I catalogued them, I know they would fill a hundred volumes, and if I wanted to define them, I know I would spend the rest of my life in the endeavour.

“Here.”

I indicate the hamper. Then I spread the clean cloth on the workbench.

“Tea,” I say, but my word is drowned in another burst of thunder.

“Oh, thank goodness,” exclaims Watson as he wipes his brow.

My beloved companion may not notice the passage of time in his garden, but that does not mean he is impervious to its effects. He cleans his hands as best he can, and then launches himself upon the foodstuffs, sandwiches, cakes, fruit, with abandon.

I pour tea from a thermos flask into cups.

Rain drums on the roof of the shed.

“Were you expecting a storm, Holmes?”

“Yes.”

Watson harrumphs like the grumpy old curmudgeon he is only some of the time.

When the edge of his hunger is blunted, his manners return. “Thank you so much, Holmes. This is wonderful.” He sighs and looks at me and sips his tea while I finish eating. “And very thoughtful. Have you made progress today?”

“Considerable.”

“So have I.”

We pack everything up. Watson carefully folds the cloth and places it atop the hamper. Then he closes the distance between us.

“Holmes.”

I know that tone.

I hear another rumble of thunder, but this time, well, it seems more romantic.

Watson begins, “Since we’re exiled here anyway…”

“Yes?”

I am being coy. Watson doesn’t mind.

“…and since we’ve made so much progress already today…”

“Yes?”

“…why don’t we take the rest of the day off?”

The rest of the day is scant time, indeed, but I don’t tell Waston that.

“I think that’s a reasonable course of action.” The way I am looking at him, at his chest, at his mouth, at his hands, leaves no room for doubt as to my preference of how we should spend the rest of the day.

A sudden roar of thunder startles both us.

“Dear me,” mutters Watson.

“I suspect that this is the last storm of the summer, my dear man.”

He nods. “I expect you’re right.”

The rain is loud, but the shed is cosy in its own way, small and dark and redolent with the aromas of garden and gardening and gardener

Watson scoots closer and kisses me. I taste sweet, black tea on his tongue. Then he takes me into his arms, and I am deaf to the patterings and rumblings of the last of the summer storms.


	10. Vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson have morning tea with the ladies of Better Paddocks. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .29 Vanilla.
> 
> My sister sent me [this article](https://www.cnn.com/2020/09/17/asia/australia-venomous-stinging-trees-scn-scli-intl/index.html) about a venomous stinging tree in Australia.

“…of course, these Sussex Wiggs,” said Miss Amy Murgatroyd chattily as she nibbled the bun, “are nothing like the ones my great aunt Sylvia used to make. Nothing at all.”

My life as a doctor had prepared me for such conversations, with such ladies of an indeterminate, meaning I did not attempt to determine it, age.

I smiled pleasantly and made the appropriate noises. “Your aunt?”

“Her great aunt Sylvia,” echoed Miss Hinchcliffe before cramming a bun in her mouth and chewing like an energetic bovine in muddy boots.

Holmes gave a weak smile, which he quickly buried in his teacup. He was, I knew, beyond bored, but he was putting on a good face for the sake of Christmas.

Even though it was only the middle of September.

It was only September, but Holmes and I were taking morning tea with Miss Murgatroyd and Miss Hinchcliffe at their farm Better Paddocks. We were doing this because Better Paddocks was where Holmes and I acquired the centrepiece of our Christmas feast. Even in retirement, Holmes was a fowl fancier, and he’d decided, through trial and error, that Better Paddocks raised the very best ducks; their ducks, in his estimation, when prepared well were tastier than any goose, woodcock, pigeon, or quail he could find anywhere else in the area. The ladies of Better Paddocks sold their eggs freely enough, but they only parted with their bird under special circumstances and to special customers. And these occasional social calls were part of the strategy to keep Holmes and myself in favour with our suppliers.

Also, Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd shared a farm the way Holmes and I shared a cottage, so there was a certain element of unspoken solidarity to the visits despite the fact that the four of us did not have much else in common.

Or so I thought.

Until Miss Murgatroyd began talking about Sussex Wiggs.

Sussex Wiggs were the name she gave to the rich, spiced breakfast buns before us on offer with the tea. I enjoyed them, especially the mix of cloves, mace, and nutmeg, but knowing Holmes had a slight dislike for caraway seeds, I suspected myself alone in my regard.

Holmes had, I noted, taken a polite bite, but only one.

“Great Aunt Sylvia used to put a drop of real vanilla in her Wiggs, of course, real vanilla, mind you, which must’ve cost Uncle Milford an extravagant sum,” continued Miss Murgatroyd, “yes, she put one drop of real vanilla in the Wiggs every day except, of course, for _that_ Whit Monday.”

Long practice had taught me my cue. “And what, Miss Murgatroyd, did Great Aunt Sylvia put in the Wiggs on _that_ ,” I imitated her stress, “Whit Monday?”

Miss Hinchcliffe snorted, but Miss Murgatroyd paid her no mind.

“A tablespoon of the extract of Gympie-Gympie tree she’d brought back with her from eastern Australia. Uncle Milford was dead before he’d even swallowed his first sip of tea.”

Miss Hinchcliffe barked a single laugh and clapped her hands together. “Oh, Murgatroyd, you’re going to put them right off those buns with talk like that!”

Miss Hinchcliffe was only partially correct.

I’d taken a rather large bite of the bun on my plate. The lumpy mass sat heavy in my mouth. I did not want to chew it. I definitely did not want to swallow it. I glanced at Holmes.

“Indeed, Miss Murgatroyd?” he said, dropping his cup onto his saucer and sliding both on the table and leaning forward like the sleuthhound before the scent. They were the first signs of genuine interest he’d shown since we’d arrived at Better Paddocks. “Do you know how the poison was actually prepared?” he asked.

“Well, I understand it’s a nettle, as bad as any spider or snake venom, or so they say, and I believe it was,” she scrunched up her face in recollection, “stewed.”

“But why did she kill Uncle Milford?” I sputtered, having finally got the glob bun down my throat.

“Oh, you know.”

“There’s a drop of real vanilla in those, too, Doctor,” said Miss Murgatroyd, pointing to the buns.

“No doubt,” I said, swallowing and running my tongue around the inside of my mouth, hoping for a taste of it, the real vanilla, and not something else.

Miss Murgatroyd prattled on. “Of course, Uncle Milford wasn’t my real uncle. Great Uncle Gilbert was my real uncle, but he accidentally drank his eyedrops and died before I was born. Of course, he didn’t _really_ drink his eyedrops. Great Aunt Sylvia…”

Holmes looked like a child on Christmas morning.

“Tell me more,” he murmured as he, I could not believe my eyes, _reached for another bun!_

A lifetime of experience or not, my consternation must’ve shown on my face.

“Doctor Watson,” said Miss Murgatroyd, placing her firm, coarse, weather-beaten hand on mine. “Would you like to go out and see the flock while Amy and Mister Holmes have a nice, murderous chinwag?”

I looked at her, really looked at her, perhaps for the first time since we’d met.

“Yes, Miss Hinchcliffe, I would.”

“You will call me ‘Hinch’ like Amy does,” she said as she got to her feet. “Murgatroyd, we’re going out.”

“Righty-o, Hinch,” chirped Miss Murgatroyd.

“Would you like to go out through the kitchen, Doctor.”

“Is it more convenient?”

“No, but I thought you might want to see for yourself where we keep the vanilla.” She winked and howled and slapped my back like a rugger mate.

I followed her out of the room.

“Amy comes from curious stock that makes even curiouser stock, if you catch my meaning, but there’s no touch of the Borgia in her.”

“I think Holmes is fascinated by her.”

“Oh, good. So am I, as you can probably guess, and his throwing some attention her way will give me a good reason to be proper jealous tonight.” She winked again, but I moved too fast for another back slap.

“To the ducks?” I quacked.


	11. Lightening.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes wakes up in the night and feels anxious.
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .39 Lightening.

Sherlock Holmes woke in the early hours of the morning in his nice warm bed. Sleep had vanished suddenly and without warning. It was still very dark, and the cottage was very quiet.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, given the hour and quiet, vexing, unhelpful thoughts began to invade Holmes’s peace. They were much like weeds invading a neat and tidy herbaceous border. It was as if seeded underneath the bed, these doubts and ponderings curled up and over, extending their vine-like limbs into Holmes’s place of repair and repose.

The cottage was far from any other residence. If someone, or something, meant he or Watson harm, that thing could enter, strike, and leave with impunity. He and Watson were not young men. They would fight, of course, but the days when they could wholly rely on their own physical strength were behind them.

The countryside was so unlike London where someone was bound to hear, and the sheer numbers living shoulder to shoulder meant that you were never quite alone.

And they were alone here. Very alone. Being very alone had its advantages when moments of affection, moments of privacy were desired, but here, now, in the darkness and the quiet, Holmes wished for a street and streetlamp and the sounds of the never-sleeping metropolis.

He turned on his side and felt a pang in his neck. He was getting old. One day, or night, he would close his eyes for the last time. What was waiting for him on the other side? He closed his eyes and pictured nothing. The idea of leaving Watson, the idea of Watson mourning him caused a wave of such profound sorrow that Holmes nearly let out a dry sob.

And following quickly on that unhappy thought was the thought that Watson would go first. No! As quiet and as dark as the night was, it would nothing like the quiet and the darkness of a world without Watson. Would he suffer? Please don’t let him suffer.

Holmes was so old. He raised his hand and could make out only a grey silhouette in the darkness. He’d never anticipated reaching this age. So many years. But he’d done some good with his life, hadn’t he? Of course, many mistakes, too, and missed opportunities. But all in all, the ledger was in black.

Wasn’t it?

Enjoy the moments left, a voice said, and Holmes set about listening to Watson’s breathing. He rolled to the other side of the bed and curled his body round Watson’s and nuzzled the nape of his beloved’s neck.

A soft grunt. A clumsy hand.

“Nightmare?”

Holmes hummed.

“S’all right. M’here.” It took several jerks of his body, but Watson turned and inched up the bed and slung his arm round Holmes’s shoulders. He rested his lips on Holmes’s forehead.

Holmes smiled into the darkness, into the quiet, into the laxness of his beloved’s body, already settling back into slumber.

It was dark, but it was lightening. And soon it would be morning.


	12. Hate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something odd in a wall. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Table prompt .11 Hate. See end notes for other inspiration.

“Is that you, Watson?” called a disembodied voice.

“Holmes, I come bearing steak and oyster pie!” I cried exultantly as I crossed the threshold.

“And how are mother and child?” asked Holmes, taking the wrapped pie from my arms and leaving me to stow my Gladstone.

“It was a boy!”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“And all at Rutherford Hall are doing very well. It was a blessing to be there and do my part for the family. They are a caring lot.”

“I’m certain they were relieved that you were in attendance, what with Doctor Shepherd being away and confidence in Anstruther the much younger not what it might be.”

I hummed. “Also, something very curious happened.” I dug in my pocket and pulled out a paper note and passed it to Holmes.

“Goodness,” he remarked at first glance. Then he strode slowly to the sitting room and rooted about in the desk for his magnifying glass before taking a seat in his armchair and studying the note.

“Where did you come across this, my dear man?”

“Would you believe that little Janie Anderson and her sisters used it to pay me for my services?”

Holmes huffed in amusement. “They paid you for bringing their infant brother into the world? I thought that was what the steak and oyster pie was for.”

“No, you see, before I could take my leave I was also called to treat three dolls, two wooden soldiers, and a stuffed rabbit.”

Holmes laughed. “And where, pray tell, did the darlings come by this?”

“Would you believe it was in the wall? I had the story confirmed by their father. They’d decided to make the dining room larger, and to do so, they had to take down a plaster wall covered in floral wallpaper. The workmen found that, and many more like it, underneath the paper.”

“How old is Rutherford Hall?” asked Holmes.

“Paul Anderson claims the main house dates from 1799, but the family just moved there less than ten years ago.”

“And this,” said Holmes raising the note to the light, “is much younger than the former, but older than the latter.” He shook his head and read slowly, “The Confederate States of America.”

“Do you think it’s a mystery?”

“I think it’s a mystery. I don’t know that it’s evidence of a crime. It is curious, though.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know the answers. The Andersons hadn’t a notion of how the money got in the wall.”

Holmes looked suddenly thoughtful.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Silly notion. I was just thinking that would that all props of hateful regimes be rendered so innocuous and so trivial. May they be toys in the hands of children. Don’t suppose you want to keep it?”

“No.”

I went to the mantelpiece and struck a match.

Holmes held the note up. I put the flame to a corner.

Then he threw the flaming paper behind the grate. “Come, let us feast on the steak and oyster pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the DW GYWO prompt:
> 
> You are living in a house built circa 1799 which is being renovated. You happen to be watching when the workers take down an old plaster wall, currently covered in floral wallpaper, to make the dining room larger and brighter. Suddenly, the foreman yells out for everyone to stop what they are doing, while beckoning for you to come closer. He points at something behind the flowered wall.
> 
> Start your writing with "I bent over to see..." I asked for #9 option and got "a stack of old paper money."


	13. Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson becomes covered in kittens.
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Table prompt .50 cat.

I was in a wretched mood, and the last thing in the world that I desired was to take tea with the widow Minnie Mewler.

I regretted at once accompanying Watson to the village. I should’ve stayed at the cottage, hidden in the shed or stayed in my beekeeping kit like a suit of armour, grunting and grumbling like the old man I was, daring anyone to do more than offer a curt greeting and straightforward inquiry about the weather.

Because Watson would have to talk to every single villager and embroil himself in protracted conversations which never terminated until at least three stories of dubious veracity were exchanged and about a hundred inquiries made about health and well being and whereabouts of every single twiggy branch of the family tree.

And then, of course, there was the horror of the lending library. Why, why did I step foot in that place? Why did I follow Watson knowing what peril lay within?

Watson, in retreating from the advances of the spinster librarian, was forced into an ambush of rare proportions when he turned the corner only to find no fewer than three members of the Women’s Institute huddled and desirous of his opinion on so many of the latest goings on.

They pounced, and invitations were issued and accepted and I, weak, agreed to accompany my beloved.

To tea. At the house of the widow Minnie Mewler’s.

Fortunately, as soon as Watson and I arrived, so did the Mewler nephew, a likable young chap who was quite keen on motorised cars. He and I took a stroll in the garden and chatting about this and that while I left Watson in the widow’s clutches.

But at last, Watson and I could put off the inevitable no longer.

We went inside for tea.

“Oh, Doctor Watson!” The widow grabbled—grabbed, mind you—my beloved around the waist and stopped him mid-step. “Please don’t!” Her admonishments were whispered entreaties.

Watson looked flustered, as well he might, but he stepped around whatever the obstacle it was in the path.

Curious, I charged in after him.

“Oh, Mister Holmes!” Now it was my turn to be in the throes of the widow’s embrace. “Please don’t!”

I looked down and was disappointed to see nothing more than a large bag of brown paper lying on its side on the rug in the middle of the floor.

I skirted the object as well and took my seat.

“Auntie!”

“Andrew. Shhh!” The widow pointed to the bag which was in the middle of the room. “Go get tea,” she said softly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tea progressed in the way of country teas everywhere, but my attention was largely on the bag.

It didn’t move, and I didn’t ask, but then it did move.

It wiggled and shook and, in eponymous fashion, began to mewl.

And then, from the mouth of the bag there emerged one, two, four, six kittens and a mother cat.

The six were tiny things and represented a royal mix of colours. Tabby, white, and calico.

And then, as Watson made polite noises of appreciation, they began to climb him like a tree.

“Oh, they like you!” exclaimed Mrs. Minnie Mewler, and she clapped her hand in delight.

Soon two were two doing battle with Watson’s bootlaces, one was climbing his trouser leg, two were in his lap and one brave soul had skimmed the back of the chair and was perched on the top of his head.

It was the best afternoon ever, and I was so glad I’d accompanied Watson to the village!


	14. Down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes unmasks a fake archeologist. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .35 Down.
> 
> Characters are taken from Agatha Christie's _Murder at the Vicarage._

“Out with it, Holmes.”

“Watson.”

“Please. Your face. You look down, and the way you said the dinner at the Old Hall was ‘fine,’ it was obviously not ‘fine,’ so out with it. What happened? Did Colonel Prothero make an ass out of himself again?”

“No, well, yes, but that’s nothing new. It is that Professor Stone sent his apologies. He was under the weather. His assistant Miss Cram attended in his place.”

“Well, you didn’t lack for conversation then. She’s a chatty thing and not shy about sharing her opinions. I fail to see what the problem is unless she talked your ear off.”

“No, it wasn’t Miss Cram. It was that tonight makes the fourth time since Professor Stone’s arrival that I have failed to see him.”

“Holmes, I told you he was at the church fete. I saw him with my own eyes. Just because you didn’t see him, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He’s not a ghost! He’s an archeologist who spends all his waking hours ‘down in the barrow’ excavating that mound on Colonel Prothero’s land with the aid of his loquacious young helpmeet Miss Gladys Cram, whose epitaph will forever me etched in my mind as…”

“…’she of the pink stockings at evensong,’” finished Holmes with a smirk.

“Just so. But don’t you think you’re making a barrow out of a bunion, Holmes? It’s sheer coincidence that you haven’t seen the fellow yet.”

“Is it?”

“All right, I’ll bite. Why? Why would he be hiding from you? Does he think you’re going to challenge him in some way intellectually?”

“I doubt it. He’s an expert in his own field.”

“All right. Do you share some kind of, I don’t know, old rancor about something? Hard feelings? Did you once deduce that what he thought was some new kind of ichthyosaur was really just a taxidermist with a devilishly unscientific sense of humor?”

Holmes quirked another smile and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Did you quarrel over the affections of a sweet thing in your youths?”

I widened my eyes in mock accusation.

Holmes rolled his eyes and huffed. Then he said quietly, thoughtfully,

“I knew Stone. Not well, but I knew him in London.”

“Well, the man calling himself Professor Stone and the girl calling herself Gladys Cram are at this very moment laying their heads to sleep upon their pillows at The Blue Boar in adjacent,” I raised a cautioning finger, “but not adjoining rooms…”

“You’re becoming a village gossip in your dotage, Watson,” interjected Holmes amusedly.

“…and if you want to go over there right now and look him directly in the eye and ask him ‘Are you the real Professor Stone?’ then I will be behind you every step. I’ll take my revolver just in case we’re dueling at sunrise.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“Colonel Prothero doesn’t like Professor Stone very much.”

“Prothero doesn’t like anyone.”

“If you were planning a crime, Watson, would you employ Gladys Cram as your accomplice?”

“Not before, after, or during the fact. Not for all the pink stockings in the world. She doesn’t know how to hold her tongue. Unless it’s all an act. Gladys Cram the Sham?”

“I don’t think she’s acting. She’s a bit too stupid and a bit too stubborn for that.”

“That’s an unhelpful combination in life.”

Holmes hummed.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m going to go ‘down in the barrow’ tomorrow unannounced.”

* * *

“And?” I asked the next afternoon when Holmes reappeared. “How are things ‘down in the barrow’?”

“Professor Stone is still under the weather. Miss Cram showed me round.”

“So, is it a real excavation or just a front for transporting smuggled goods?”

“It looks authentic,” admitted Holmes with some show of reluctance.

I nodded. “So, are you satisfied?” I knew the answer before I finished the question.

“Not quite. I went up to Old Hall and planted the suggestion in Colonel Prothero’s mind that he have everything in Old Hall valued by an outsider from London.”

“What?”

Holmes and I exchanged a few moments’ worth of silent glances.

“Oh, so that’s your idea,” I said finally. I nodded. “But there’s a problem with that. When Stone gets the wind up and bolts, you’ll have a very narrow window to catch him.”

Holmes stared.

I corrected myself. “ _We’ll_ have a very narrow window to catch him. Did you actually see anything at the Old Hall that didn’t look like the real thing?”

“There was a Charles II tazza which made me wonder.”

If Sherlock Holmes was wondering, I was certain. “All right. What’s the plan? Are we going really 'down in the barrow' tonight?”

In short, we didn’t go ‘down in the barrow’ at all.

The plan went into action when young Jacob, our Sussex Irregular, knocked on the door after midnight. Holmes sprang and reached the door in two strides

“She’s gone into the woods behind the vicarage with a suitcase.”

“Good word, Master Jacob!” whispered Holmes with a slap on the lad’s back. I was already tightening my muffler round my neck and throwing an extra woolly scarf round Holmes’s.

“But, sir, there’s more. She come out less than ten minutes later and went back to The Blue Boar.”

“Even better. We’ve torches. Do you have trusted men?”

“Yes, sir. My brother Andy’s keeping watch on the spot, and Georgie’s gone for the constable.”

“Let’s go then.”

The man calling himself Stone was caught red-handed with a suitcase containing the Charles II tazza as well some trencher salts. He tried to bolt, but Constable Hurst took him down. Gladys Cram claimed to have been duped by the imposter archeologist from the beginning, and Holmes and I spent more than one night debating the veracity of this claim. In the end, she was not charged with any crime. She was, however, out of employment, but, as it turned out, not for long. Colonel Prothero quickly hired her as an archivist and secretary. Her chief responsibility seemed to be typing his memoirs from dictation.

Colonel Prothero was grateful for the recovered property, but as was his nature, the good will only lasted about a fortnight and then he was once again his bombastic, easily outraged, and ever-pompous self.

I thought no one would go ‘down in the barrow’ anymore, but Holmes proved me wrong. He returned from a visit to London to inform me as well as Colonel Prothero that the real Professor Stone was interested in the site.

“He was dismayed to learn what had happened in his name, and he is planning a visit next week to see if the work might be resumed. Colonel Prothero seems pleased, well, as pleased as he can be.”

“Someone’s going to murder that man one day, Holmes. I don’t know if we’ll be around to solve it or not.”

“The real Professor Stone also gave me a gift. I asked him for it because I knew it was,” Holmes reached into a box and pulled out a bundle wrapped in cotton wool.

“Oh, Holmes, an ammonite! They are…”

“…your absolute favourite.”

I looked up and beamed at him. “Real archeology is wonderful!”


	15. Past.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes gets some help in making a special dessert for Watson.
> 
> For the DW Holmes Minor October 2020 prompt: dressing up and for the DW Inspiring Tables 50 prompts table .06 past.

“Miss Eyelesbarrow.”

“Mister Holmes.”

The two of us eyed the dessert that had just been removed from the oven with shared disappointment.

“Perhaps the moral of the story is that the past cannot be replicated,” I said. “Time marches on.”

“To everything there is a season,” added Lucy Eyelesbarrow, her oven-mitted hands on her hips.

“I asked Watson for the details. I asked him twice. I dare not ask more for fear of raising his suspicions of what I was planning. He told me this was his favourite autumn treat as a child. What his mother made him! Apples, cinnamon, sugar, butter, all the rest of it.” I threw up my hands. “He’ll be back shortly.”

“It _smells_ wonderful,” said Lucy.

“Indeed. That is to your credit, Miss Eyelesbarrow. I know you are a best baker in the surrounding area, and I wanted the best for this project. I am a chemist, really. Not a baker.”

“But it _looks_ …”

“Like a stretch of Marylebone Road that’s been torn up.”

“Yes,” agreed Lucy who said she’d never seen Marylebone Road but caught the gist easily enough. She added, after a while, “His mother. She wasn’t…”

“What?”

“Blind, perhaps?”

“Not that I know.” I sighed. “I supposed it’ll just be a joke. Ha, ha! Look at the pudding! Or is it time to spackle the shed roof?”

“It just wants, oh, I don’t know, dressing up,” said Lucy. “Let’s see what we have.” She surveyed the assembled ingredients. “Why don’t we make a nice custard and cover the whole thing in it?”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” I wiped my hands on my apron and with another glance at the clock, asked hurriedly, “What do you need me to do?”

* * *

“Holmes, I’m going to weep for joy.”

“Indeed. I shall let Miss Eyelesbarrow know. She will be pleased that you like it. She was invaluable to me.”

“She’s a clever girl, Holmes. And so kind. We must do something nice for her.”

“Indeed.”

Watson dug his spoon in and brought it to his mouth, his expression one of undisguised pleasure. “Mmm! Just like mother used to make! I don’t know how you managed it from that little bit you wheedled out of me the other day. How you surprise me! I had no notion of what you were going to do with the information. I should’ve known you had a plan!”

He shot me a look, and I smiled.

I ate a bite myself and thanked Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow silently. It tasted marvelous and with the custard blanket, it didn’t look so much like something a cat might vomit on a rug.

Watson ate. And hummed. And sighed contentedly.

“I don’t know how you did it. I really don’t.”

“Well, we started with the apples and sugar and cinnamon and butter…”

“And just like mother, before Aunt Gertrude would come round for tea, you covered the whole blessed thing in custard!”

I chuckled. “The past is never far, is it, my dear man?” 


	16. End.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes gets melancholic looking at a display of carved turnips at an autumn festival but his gloom doesn't last for long.
> 
> Inspired by [this display of carved turnips](https://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/631016293080973312/fallbabylon-a-collection-of-carved-turnips-climb).
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .10 End and the DW Watson's Woes October Spooktacular #1 prompt from _The Sign of Four_ : _"The yellow glare from the shop-windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air, and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the crowded thoroughfare. There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghost-like in the endless procession of faces which flitted across these narrow bars of light,--sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all human kind, they flitted from the gloom into the light, and so back into the gloom once more."_

I stood before the strange display like an island, letting the milling crowd flow around me like a stream. A nip was in the air as well as the smell of bonfires. The days were growing shorter, the nights longer, and the trees were losing their colourful leaves. It was harvest time, the odd assembly before me said as much.

Despite the cries and chatter of high spirits all around me, I couldn’t help but sigh and tuck my muffler tighter round my neck.

The autumn of the year, the autumn of my life was upon me. The spring in my step, the spring of my life, was gone. So quickly, it had fled. 

Memories flooded.

I remembered a scene from long ago, a yellow glare throwing a murky, shifting radiance on a crowded thoroughfare. I remembered a procession of faces which flitted from the gloom to the light and back into the gloom once more.

They were ghosts. I did not know it at the time, but I knew it in my bones now.

I was one of them.

“There you are! Oh, yes! Isn’t it marvelous? So amusing. And we’d never see anything like in London. Holmes? What are you thinking of, Holmes?”

“The end,” I replied gloomily.

“So am I!” I turned to face him. Watson’s face was as jolly as mine was solemn. “The end of hunger, that is. I just got the most scrumptious recipe for turnip soup from Mrs. Michaels and,” he held up a heavy sack triumphantly, “enough turnips to make it. I even bought that one.” He pointed at the display. “On the second row, third from the left, because it reminded me of you! They’ll hand it over before we leave the festival. We can put it in the window.”

I studied the carved turnip in question. There was, though I’d never admit it aloud, a resemblance.

“But I’m sorry. I interrupted you. You were thinking about the end of…?”

I looked at his face and said, “Melancholy.”

“Oh.” He gave me a mischievous smile. Then he leaned closer and whispered, conspiratorially, into my muffler. “If it wouldn’t cause a scandal, I’d kiss that melancholy right off your face right now. Perhaps we can get away with it in the corn maze. That is, if you don’t mind sharing me with a sack of turnips.” He winked.

I grinned. “Oh, Watson.”


	17. Stay.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Stay  
>  **Length:** 300  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** By the time he reaches the taxidermy tent, Holmes is tired of the autumn festival, but Watson wants to stay for 5 more minutes.

“Oh, there you are, Holmes!”  
  
As, I opened the flap of the tent, the booming voice of the announcer drifted in.  
  
 _“…and the winner of the third prize in the raffle is…number 129…ticket 129…if you’re holding ticket 129, please report to Ted’s Taxidermy tent and claim your prize…your prize is lot 14…”_  
  
“How do you define grotesque, Watson?” asked Holmes.  
  
My eye and my attention were fixed on the activity outside the tent, so I had to ask Holmes to repeat himself. When he did, I answered,  
  
“Horrible, I suppose. With a touch of the absurd.”   
  
He hummed. “I think I might define it as this.” He nodded to the mounted figure before him. The front portion of a kid goat had been attached to the tail of a fish. Wings had been added, too. “Aren’t you ready to go home? We’ve been here all day. I’m growing weary.”   
  
“Might we stay another five minutes?”  
  
“All right. Let me take that sack of turnips for you. You’ve been lugging it about for a while.”  
  
“Thank you. It has the, uh, Holmes turnip in it.”  
  
“Oh, lovely.”  
  
“….and now second prize in the raffle is…number 204…ticket 204…”  
  
“OH, OH, OH!” I cried, reading the number on the slip of paper I held over and over. “THAT’S ME!” The people in the tent clapped. I turned and addressed the lady at the register. “What have I won?”  
  
“Lot 12,” she said brightly. “Congratulations!”  
  
“Oh, Holmes! It’s a squirrel rowing a canoe! What fun! Shall we put it on the mantelpiece or perhaps in the window?”  
  
“Dear God, Watson,” groaned Holmes under his breath. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t win first prize.”   
  
“Uh, yes, best as well,” I said, eyeing the winged goat-fish which was clearly labeled ‘Grand Prize – Raffle.’


	18. Safe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Safe  
>  **'Verse:** ACD - Sussex 'verse  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Holmes/Watson, Rowena Blake, Miss Marple, Joyce Reynolds (Agatha Christie)  
>  **Notes:** Based on Agatha Christie's _Hallowe'en Party_ and should be considered **SPOILERS** for that work. For Watson's Woes October Spooktacular prompt #4: "The devil’s agents may be of ﬂesh and blood, may they not?" and DW Inspiring Tables prompt .16: safe.  
>  **Summary:** A young girl boasts of seeing a murder before a Hallowe'en party. Watson (and friends) intervene.

“I don’t know why you are going to help with a children’s Hallowe’en party, Watson.”

“Because they asked. You could come, too, if you wished. They’d appreciate an extra set of hands.”

“I doubt it. I’d just be in the way.’

“What about help during the party itself? Will you reconsider Mrs. Blake’s request?”

“She made that in jest, Watson. She doesn’t genuinely desire me to play fortune-teller for a bunch of young people. Telling them who their sweethearts will be! Bah!”

“You could tell them more important things from their cuffs and the way they part their hair.”

Holmes snorted, then he fixed an eye on the mounted tableau of a squirrel rowing in a canoe. “Are you certain they don’t need extra prizes? We could donate…”

“Until later!”

* * *

“But I did see a murder, I did!” cried a young girl as I entered the hall with yet another pumpkin.

“When?” asked one of the girls giggling in a corner.

“When I was a child!”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone at the time?” asked another.

“I didn’t know it was a murder at the time. It wasn’t until later that I realise what I’d seen!”

“Joyce, really!” sighed one of the mothers who was fussing about the bunting. Then she muttered under her breath. “The lies you tell!”

“I did! I did! Oh, you’re all horrid!”

“Shall I hold the ladder, Doctor?” asked young Jacob “Or do you want to hold it for me?”

“You climb, I’ll hold,” I said but my eyes followed Joyce as she stomped off. “Jacob, that young lady…”

“Joyce is always telling tall tales. You should hear the one about the trip she took to India. The raj gave her an elephant!” He snorted and rolled his eyes.

I fell thoughtful, then said,

“Jacob, when you finish here, will you do me a favour and get a message to Mister Holmes. Ask him if he will come and if possible, to bring Miss Jane Marple with him.”

“The old lady from Saint Mary Mead?”

“Yes.”

“I saw her this morning, going to Carter’s nursery.”

“Tell him that, too, please.”

* * *

_**Twelve hours later…** _

“Oh, Holmes, this pumpkin pie is delicious. I am so sorry Miss Marple wasn’t up to joining us for a slice and a cup of coffee. Jacob would’ve ferried her back to Saint Mary Mead whenever she wanted.”

“She’s had a long day, Watson, and old ladies need their sleep.”

“So she said. Not, old gentlemen, though.” I winked at him. “Goodness, this pie is phenomenal.”

“You deserve a hearty reward tonight, my dear Watson.”

“It was a team effort, I think.”

“But there wouldn’t have been any effort at all if it weren’t for you. A child is safe in her bed tonight, two children, in fact, maybe three, because of you.”

“It was a just hunch. It might have amounted to nothing, but something told me there was kernel of truth to what Joyce had said when we were preparing for the party. But I also knew that neither you nor I would be able to wheedle the truth of the matter out of Joyce. If we were to interrogate her, she’d have dug in her heels like Balaam’s ass. That’s what why I wanted Mrs. Marple to come with you. I thought we needed an expert in young girls. And she did not disappoint!”

“No, she did not. It was a stroke of luck her being in the village today. With Miss Marple’s help, we discovered it wasn’t the boastful, fabricating Joyce who’d seen the murder, it was her best friend Miranda, who’d been forced to skip the Hallowe’en party because she was ill. Three years ago, Miranda witnessed the companion of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe being dropped down a well so that that lady’s fortune would go to her nephew and her nephew’s wife, Mrs. Rowena Blake, children’s party hostess and murderer.”

“Everyone thought the companion had run away. It was a murder disguised as abandonment. I was proud of you, too, Holmes. You found the body after all this time and when no one suspected there was even a body to search for!”

Holmes took a sip of coffee and smiled. “It is gratifying to know my ability to track a scent hasn’t faded.”

I washed another bite of pie down with a gulp of coffee. “Rowena Blake.” I shivered. “She was honestly planning to murder that child. It makes me think of the Baskerville case.”

“How so?”

“You said then that the devils’ agents might be flesh and blood. Rowena Blake. How many people, how many children, might she have done away with to feed her greed?”

“Indeed. But she won’t have that opportunity. Children, and everyone, are safe from her agency tonight.”

“I’m so glad, Holmes. I don’t like to think about what might have happened if I’d ignored Joyce like everyone else did.”

Holmes patted my hand. “Let’s not think of that.”

“The indiscretions and foibles and embarrassments of character that we all commit at the age of thirteen should not have lasting, least of all, fatal consequences.”

“Certainly not. Would you like me to read your palm, Watson?”

“What?” I chuckled. “You refused your fortune-telling services earlier!”

“And right I was! The requestor turned out to be very unpleasant woman. Let me see.”

I offered him my left hand, palm up, and he began to trace the lines with his index finger.

“I see many rambles through the woods, along the shore, over the meadows. I see a lot of smiling faces and hear many cries of gratitude. I smell slices of pie and mugs of cider. I hear snores by the fire and garden catalogue slipping from a chest to the floor. I hear laughter and the creak of bed hinges. And I see more adventures. Some daring, some dangerous. I see a stout heart triumphing and good instincts saving the day that didn’t know it needed saving.”

“Oh, Holmes, I love you, too.”


	19. Under.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Under  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Length:** 500  
>  **Notes:** Reference to Holmes's past drug use. Angst. For the Watson's Woes October Spooktacular prompt #3: "Of all ghosts the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst." And the DW Inspiring Table prompt .17 under.  
>  **Summary:** Watson pays a professional visit to the local recluse, thought to be a witch.

“You are the envy of every schoolboy and not a few village gossips, Watson. You have been to see Mrs. LeStrange—and survived! I imagine news of your visit is spreading round the countryside as we speak, and our invitations to tea will increase exponentially. We will be under some scrutiny and speculation ourselves.”

“Not that we weren’t already,” I said, setting down my Gladstone and hanging up my coat and hat

“Not that we weren’t already, but I doubt the rumours about us extend to the supernatural realm.”

“Dear me, I hope not, Holmes. I shall remember not to quip in public that in past days you would’ve been burned at the state for witchcraft with your deductions. But, yes, my new patient, the boys dare each other to go past her gate and the ladies, and gentlemen, speculate about her with abandon. Luckily, I am bound under my doctor’s oath and my ethics to keep mute.”

“But surely it doesn’t extend to your beloved. Tell me, are the stories true? Is Mrs. LeStrange a witch?”

“The true story is a very sad one, Holmes. It makes me think of what Victor Trevor’s father said.”

“Goodness! We are going back into the archives, aren’t we? Refresh my memory, please.”

“’Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst.’”

“Ah, yes. So, Mrs. LeStrange is under the spell of a ghost.”

“Yes, it is Miss LeStrange, technically, by the way. A young man broke her heart twenty years ago, and she has not ventured outside the gates of that house ever since. Stepping across the threshold is like walking back in time. The furnishings, her dress, nothing has changed. She is, as you say, under a spell. Or maybe like a butterfly under glass. I don’t think she knows that the spell, or the glass, are of her own making.”

“Like Dickens’ Mrs. Havisham?”

“Precisely. But no bitterness. Just sadness. The ghost of that young man’s rejection is haunting her to this day. She is buried under the past.”

“What treatment might be prescribed for that, Doctor?”

“Well, I think I’ve laid the foundation for some trust. I tended to her using the most up-to-date methods of the 1880’s. Nothing that would harm her, of course, but nothing too modern so as not to offend her sensibilities. If I’m allowed in tomorrow to check up on her, perhaps I’ll begin a gentle campaign to persuade her to get from under her ghost.”

“I think you will have success.”

“You are biased, Holmes.”

“Not at all. I know of your campaign methods.” I got to my feet and went to my desk. After a few minutes of rummaging, I found what I sought. I held up my old Moroccan case and opened it. It was empty and had been empty for almost as many years as Miss LeStrange had nursed her broken heart. “I was under a wicked spell once. Some ghosts need a proper airing and exorcising.”


	20. Up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes goes to London. Watson goes to Saint Mary Mead.
> 
> For the October DW Holmes Minor prompt: dressing up and for the DW Inspiring Tables 50 prompts .34: up.

“Should I be jealous, Watson?”

“Should I? You are headed to cesspool London for a sinful jaunt while my destination is the quiet, respectable, wholesome village of Saint Mary Mead.”

Holmes chuckled. “You are ostensibly going to assist Doctor Haydock in his vaccination campaign, but I know that you will spend as much time with Miss Jane Marple as you will jabbing the populace.”

“What can I say? I find a first-rate problem-solving mind irresistible.”

“See!”

“But you’ll be swanning about the metropolis—”

“I’m afraid my swanning years are behind me, my dear man.”

“Nonsense.”

“And you know I’m only going because my winter coat is in terrible condition, and the cold has set it.”

“Yes. Please don’t employ any economy or concern yourself with style. Get the warmest thing money will buy—even if it’s an affront to your sartorial sense. I don’t want a repeat of last year. Pneumonia.”

I shuddered involuntarily at the memory.

Holmes reached out and squeezed my hand. “I wish I were going with you to Saint Mary Mead.”

“You’d be bored within an hour!”

“I doubt it. If you believe Miss Marple, Saint Mary Mead is a hotbed of mystery and intrigue!”

“We shall see. I do hope to come back with some advice for the garden.”

* * *

“Now, Watson, I want you to tell me everything about this little problem that you and Miss Marple solved, something about a gill of pickled shrimps that went missing from a string bag.”

“Oh, forget that! Your coat! Oh, it’s perfect!”

“I don’t know about perfection.” Holmes extended his arms, the better to show off the dark grey wool. “But it is warm, far too warm for the train, but excellent for our country rambles.” He plucked at it. “Perhaps a bit drab, but—”

“It just wants some dressing up!” I cried.

“Yes, it does want a bit of dressing up, doesn’t it?”

I removed my hand from the shopping bag and held it up triumphantly.

Holmes stared.

“Miss Marple taught me to knit!”

A smile split Holmes’s face. He reached for the bundle of fuzzy light grey wool with streaks of silver, which, by design, matched the silver streaks of Holmes’s hair, and asked, “You made this?”

“With some help, well, a lot of help. I wasn’t just jabbing villagers and chatting about bulbs.”

Holmes took the muffler and unfurled it. “It is elegant.” He hung it round his neck and toss one of the ends behind him with a theatrical verve. “And warm. I’m beyond touched, Watson, that you learned a new skill and that you crafted this with your own hands for me.”

He leaned in, and I tilted my face up, and we kissed like the reunited lovers we were. Finally, I pulled away, noting the dampness of his brow.

“You look sophisticated, Holmes. Too sophisticated for a country ramble?”

“Never, my good man,” he assured me. “We have a good bit of catching up to do. For starters, the pickled shrimps!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These words are my first about a fortnight sabbatical. Glad to be back in the saddle.


	21. Dog.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cottage gets a visit from a very industrious rat terrier named Nippers. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables 50 prompts .49: dog.

“Thank you, Jacob,” I said as I alit from the cart. “Oh, would you please stay for a moment?”

“Right you are, Doctor.”

I walked towards the front door, and an odd tableau greeted me. Holmes was seated in a chair that evidently had been dragged out of the interior of the cottage for the purpose.

“Holmes, what’s wrong? What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for you, of course, my dear Watson.”

The decidedly noxious aroma assaulted me as I neared him.

“Oh, God! What is that smell?”

“Mrs. Bradley stopped by with Nipper, who I have to say, is as superior a rat terrier as his devoted caregiver proclaims.”

“Yes, she is rather fond of singing his praises, isn’t she? But goodness me, Holmes,” I exclaimed, wiping my eyes and burrowing my nose further into my muffler, “did the blessed dog die here?”

“No, he did not, but his mistress bundled him off with uncharacteristic haste. She left without so much as an attempt at what she came for, which I am convinced was to browbeat you into playing Father Christmas.”

I groaned. “Not again. But the smell, Holmes?”

“Nipper found the blue egg.”

“What blue egg? Oh, my word! Do you mean the missing _Easter_ egg? The one we never found, the one we thought had been carried off by a fox or something.”

“The very one. Nipper found it in the corner of the shed, preserved by a union of factors I would very much like to study—when the air clears. I don’t think in all my years of scientific experiments at Baker Street, I ever managed to produce so rotten a miasma.”

“I don’t know about that, but I do know one thing.”

“Luncheon at the public house?”

“Absolutely. Jacob?”

“Ready when you are, sirs.” 


	22. Mirror.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Mirror  
>  **Length:** 221b  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Notes:** For the DW Holmes Minor November prompt: bell and for the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .46 mirror. It's just a pun.  
>  **Summary:** Holmes has an odd dream.

“Do you ever wonder about a mirror world, Watson?”  
  
As pillow talk went, it left much to be desired, and I said as much as I did my best impression of a fitful walrus in my attempt to roll over in bed in order to face Holmes.   
  
It was almost winter and still dark. Holmes and I were buried beneath layers of warm blankets.   
  
“A world made of mirrors?”  
  
“No, I mean a parallel world.”   
  
“No. Did you have a dream? You were restless.”  
  
“How would you know, my dear man? You sleep like the dearly departed.”  
  
My reply was a noise of indignation, but I recognised the parry for what it was. “Did you have a dream?” I pressed.  
  
“Yes,” Holmes admitted. “I was Scottish.”  
  
“Ah, a _good_ dream, then.”  
  
This won me a retaliatory tickling.   
  
“I was a lecturer and a surgeon at the medical university,” said Holmes a few minutes later.   
  
I hummed thoughtfully.  
  
“I was demonstrating to a theatre of medical students how to determine a person’s occupation and other personal characteristics based on physical clues found on their body. You were there.”  
  
“Oh, yes?”  
  
“A bright young thing, gazing intently, taking notes furiously.”   
  
“You are fascinating, even in your dreams,” I replied and kissed Holmes’s nose.   
  
“My name was Joseph.”  
  
“Doctor Joseph? Doesn’t ring a Bell.”


	23. Future.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss LeStrange comes to tea at the cottage. **Warning for references to suicide.** A continuation of Chapter 19: [Under](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902514/chapters/66349336#workskin).
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Table .08 future.

I did not mean to eavesdrop. Truly, I did not. I wasn’t even supposed to be on the premises. Watson and I had had a long conversation about just where I would be when Miss LeStrange came to tea at the cottage, and not one of the alternatives discussed was ‘hidden in the shed, eavesdropping.’

But there I was, hidden in the shed, eavesdropping. 

Miss LeStrange was our reclusive neighbour and the object of much village speculation. Some thought her a witch. She never left her home, and she did not participate in village life. Approaching her gate was the stuff of schoolboy dares.

Watson had attended her in a professional capacity and learned that she was, in fact, living in the past due to a broken heart in her youth. Not a witch, but someone stubbornly nursing a sorrow for a very long time.

I had been observing with no little tenderness the quiet campaign my beloved had been waging to gain Miss LeStrange’s trust and his subsequent efforts to coax her into the modern era. Meanwhile, on the public front, he was bold in his defense of the lady whenever gossip threatened to tarnish her, so bold, in fact, that he had come under speculation himself, a state of affairs which amused me greatly.

But back to me, in the shed, eavesdropping.

It was a comedy of non sequiturs, if such a thing exists. Before departing for the village, but after bidding farewell and good luck to Watson, I’d stopped by the shed to pick up the seed catalog which Watson had promised to lend the vicar’s wife, but no sooner had I the good book in my grasp than I remembered I had an unopened letter from my brother in my coat pocket.

Whatever possessed me to sit down and open it instead of going on my way. I do not know, but there was my mistake.

Mycroft invariably sends me little puzzles, offspring of word games and taunts, along with news of his days, and thus, I was quickly diverted from my scheduled departure from the cottage. I lost track of time, chewing on the end of a crude garden pencil and attempting to decode my brother’s latest cipher.

I didn’t hear their footsteps on the garden path until it was much too late.

_“…I empathise, I do. It is extremely painful to turn one’s head and face forward when one has been for so very long looking backwards. It is a wrench.”_

_“Then why should I bother, Doctor, if it is so painful? Why endure that? To be like other people? I am not like other people.”_

_“You are a person, my dear, so in a very basic sense, you are precisely like other people, but I think only when we wrench our gaze from behind us can we begin to be open to the joys of today and the promises of tomorrow.”_

_“Oh, Doctor, what joy today? And what does tomorrow promise?”_

I didn’t move. I tried not to breathe. This was not the kind of conversation that would benefit from interruption. 

I decided to wait, silent and motionless, until they had finished their stroll and were back in the cottage and then I would make for back gate with lightning speed—well, as lightning as one of my age can make—and utmost stealth.

_“…I was at the point that you are at. I was alone. I was adrift. I saw no future for myself. I was at the point, well, I was at the end. I thought that all that was worth experiencing of life was behind me. And then something extraordinary happened, something whose effect I could not predict.”_

The memory of a nut-brown, lathe-thin serviceman limping into a hospital laboratory sprang to mind, and I smiled.

_“I read something in the newspaper about the death of the Honorable Ronald Adair.”_

My smile fell, and a thump gathered in my throat.

_“I cannot tell you why that incident among all the many in that newspaper, and in all the many newspapers I’d read since the deaths of my wife and my dearest friend, was the one that caught my eye and my attention. But there it was. I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to investigate it. It was a small thing, but it was something that made me lace my boots with more vigour than I’d felt in years.”_

The abundance of dust in the shed brought tears to my eyes.

“I don’t know that I want to investigate a crime, Doctor.”

_“No, of course not. But I must say that if you change your mind, I’m certain Holmes and myself can arrange something.”_

She laughed. She laughed!

_“Let’s see. It’s almost Christmas. Let’s make an Advent of it, a search for something, or somethings, to look forward to. Maybe you want to see a garden bloom in the spring. Maybe you want to see the unholy spectacle that is the village Christmas pageant. Maybe you want to eat the plumpest pear in Sussex. Make a list. I will help. And if nothing occurs to either of us by Christmas, well, you go back as you were. You’ve lost nothing but time, and time is yours to waste as it is, isn’t it?”_

_“You do understand.”_

_“More than you know, my dear lady. I don’t begrudge you the ways that have kept you alive until now, but I will urge you consider adopting a new attitude, one of relishing the tiny joys of the present and keeping watch for simple joys in the future. And at the risk of presuming, I think there is a simple joy awaiting us inside.”_

_“Are you referring to the fruitcake, Doctor?”_

_“I am, indeed!”_

She laughed.

I heard footfall.

_“You know there is talk about us, Doctor.”_

_“Completely unfounded.”_

_“I know. Mister Holmes is a lucky man.”_

_“I shall remind him of it when he returns.”_

He needn’t have bothered. I already knew.


	24. Leave.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A furry interloper wrecks havoc in the cottage.
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables 50 prompts: prompt .47: leave.

_Despite its placement in the darkest corner of the sitting room, when a visitor to the Sussex cottage happens to catch sight of the curious arrangement of a very life-like figure of a squirrel peeking out of an old fashioned reed-woven bee skep, a squirrel which is apparently doing its best imitation of poor Emily in the Castle Udolpho, the subsequent inquiries are invariably met by Doctor Watson—Holmes always feigns sudden deafness—with the phrase ‘an highly unlikely but nevertheless genuine concatenation of circumstance.’ If pressed by the visitor and allowed by his beloved, the good doctor will then recount the tale._

_And here it is. This is the whole story, which is, naturally, when related, abbreviated and amended depending on the audience._

* * *

You may recall the very day it happened as it was the warmest November day on record. It was so exceptionally clement that Holmes and I were inspired to leave the windows of the sitting room wide open.

It was warm in the garden, but inside the cottage, the climate was decidedly chilly.

Holmes was cross with me, and I was cross with him. The subject of our quarrel was the prize I had won in the recent autumn festival raffle.

My prize was a squirrel, a wonder of taxidermy, really, in a squirrel-sized canoe, posed, with tail curled, as if it were rowing, a tiny oar in its wee paws. It was my opinion that so singular an article should have a place of honour in our domicile. I had, accordingly, placed the squirrel and its canoe on the little table between our armchairs.

At every turn of my back, however, Holmes had expressed his contrary view by moving the squirrel and canoe to a much less prominent spot.

His thwarting grew tedious, and eventually we had words.

Later, I regretted some of the things I had said. If it had been a normal November day, I might have presented Holmes with a mug of warm apple cider as a peace offering, but as it was, I simply cut the two best apples in half and dripped some of his own honey over them. I left the plate by his elbow with a mumbled apology. Holmes grunted.

As often happens, or so I’m told by ladies who know more of such things, Holmes had fallen prey to common plight. He’d seen a homespun decoration being sold, in his case, hand-painted, old-fashioned, reed-woven bee skeps at the autumn festival, and had become instantly convinced that he could create a superior specimen if given the opportunity.

And so, there he was, on a warm November day, in the sitting room, at the desk, with an unadorned bee skep before him, planning out the scene he would paint on the skep, specifically making sketches on a piece of paper and muttering to himself about climbing rose trellises and realistic-looking Lepidoptera.

The squirrel in the canoe was back in its rightful place, but every now and then, Holmes would shoot a malevolent glance at it. Once he even snorted and rolled his eyes.

I sat down by the window to enjoy the weather and wait out Holmes’s mood. I had with me a bag of English walnuts I’d received from a kind soul in the village as payment for medical services rendered. I gather the necessary tools and set about the work of shelling.

So, there we were, me shelling nuts, Holmes, contemplating his art, and the squirrel in the canoe.

I finished my task. Leaving the walnut meat in a bowl, I cleaned up the shells and went to dispose of them.

That was when it happened.

I heard the clatter of the bowl and Holmes’s shout. I hurried to the sitting room.

I cried, “It’s alive!”

It was a foolish thing to say as a turn of the head confirmed that our squirrel was still very much resting in peace and rowing its canoe.

Holmes reached for his walking stick as the bundle of brown-grey fur swished past him. “He came in through the window, Watson!”

I had a towel in my hand and try to swat, but really, it was like trying to bat a ghost, a ghost, that is, in terms quickness, but not for invisibility because it had, by the time I saw it, crashed into the walnuts and Holmes’s apples and honey and was, in fact, a sticky, nutty panicked mess.

Our furry interloper looked about and immediately noticed a compatriot in the room. Seeking assistance, it lunged for the mounted squirrel.

“No!” I cried as the two squirrels and the canoe went crashing to the floor.

The real squirrel did not seem to be able to leave. Or maybe it didn’t want to leave. To judge it by its behaviour, it aimed to cause as much havoc and mayhem as possible and lure Holmes and myself into destroying our own sitting room.

Finally, with Holmes whacking ineffectually and me swatting similarly, we managed to guide it out the way it’d come, that is, through the open window, which I promptly shut and lovely November be damned.

“Oh, Holmes,” I moaned as I turned and survey the wreckage. “My squirrel!”

Holmes lifted the poor creature and examined it. He glanced my way, then said softly, “It will live as much as it ever did.” He frowned at the rug. “But I’m afraid it will have to find another mode of transport.”

The canoe and the tiny oar were, indeed, in splintered pieces. 

I moaned again.

“Shall I make him a wagon, Watson?”

I could tell Holmes’s heart was decidedly not in the offer. I huffed. “No. You can leave him in that bee skep. Or put him up a tree with his kin for all I care! Blasted squirrel!”

I took my leave in an undignified and childish manner.

And so it transpired that Holmes abandoned his plans for the skep, and the squirrel now makes his home there, far from the windows. 


	25. Home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson host a kind of party.
> 
> Mention of many of the ladies who have already appeared in this 'verse, all originally from Agatha Christie works. 
> 
> For DW Inspiring Tables: 50 Prompts: .44: Home.

“I thought I might find you here.”

I made room for Watson on the bench. He opened a linen napkin, revealing a quartet of raisin-studded buns.

“So these are the much lauded Swedish Saffron Buns.”

“Fresh out of the oven. All for you. I’ve had a few.”

I chuckled and set my pipe aside and tried one. I chewed and made appreciative noises. When I could speak again, I said,

“Watson, has it occurred to you that for a residence of confirmed bachelors, our home is, at the moment, overrun with women?”

He grinned and nodded and looked over his shoulder at the cottage, which emitted all the requisites of a welcoming home: warm light, spirited chatter, rich baking aromas, and a puffing chimney.

“Well, we shouldn’t be surprised at Miss Marple and Miss Eyelesbarrow. After all, we invited them.”

“True.”

“Miss Eyelesbarrow was taking care of Miss Marple, whose arm is in a sling due to an unfortunate gardening accident, and as the young lady and I have been discussing these saffron buns for some time, I thought it might be a nice outing for the convalescing and the companion.”

“As it’s proving to be.”

“I did not anticipate Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd to be in the area and stop by to chat about our Christmas duck, but, of course, once they were here…well…”

“Watson.”

“They couldn’t leave the puppies in the lorry, Holmes! It’s cold out here.”

I harrumphed and helped myself to another bun. “And Miss LeStrange?”

“She decided on the grey one.”

“I knew it!”

“You did not!”

“I did! The runt of the litter. I should’ve put some money on it with you.”

“Have another bun, Holmes.”

I did.

“Yes, Miss LeStrange was another surprise,” said Watson. “I’m so glad Lucy and I doubled the recipe. Do you know who else stopped by?”

“Mrs. Matthews. I recognize the sound of the cart.”

“Yes, she was so distracted by the party and the buns that she forgot, once more, to ask me to be Father Christmas for the play.”

I laughed. “The committee ought to have elected someone more steadfast of purpose for that role.”

“I’ll be for it next year.”

“Yes.”

Watson sighed and foisted another bun on me, which I accepted. “Do you know who I wish were here?”

“Who?”

“Agatha.”

“The girl that Jacob is sweet on?”

“Yes.”

“And why would she be invited to this party of old spinsters and duck farmers and enterprising domesticians?”

“Because she’s so very keen on stories of the mystery persuasion. You know Miss Marple solved the murder of one of her neighbours at the vicarage.”

“Yes, we’ve discussed that case.”

“Well, she also hired Miss Eyelesbarrow to sleuth for her, and together they solved an almost incredible murder which took place on a train.”

“Indeed? I did not know that.”

“And you might also not know that Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd in their spare time, when they aren’t tending ducks and midwifing puppies, reenact famous crimes of history and try to solve them.”

“Huh.”

“Ask them about their theory about the Whitechapel murders. I don’t know they’re not right, Holmes.”

“Hmm.”

“And they’re recruiting Miss LeStrange—as we speak—to join them in their hobby. Anyway, I just think if Agatha were a fly on the wall, it would give her plenty for her journal.”

“I daresay.” I snatched up the last of Watson’s offerings. “The power of saffron buns, I suppose.” Then I looked up at him and smiled. “And a home that feels like home to everyone who enters it.”

He squeezed my hand. 


	26. Begin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the party, Holmes and Watson dance in the kitchen. 
> 
> Continuation of the previous chapter. Double drabble.
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables: 50 prompts: 09. Begin.

“I believe this is the longest party I’ve attended many years, and perhaps the longest I’ve hosted ever! I don’t even know where to begin!”

“Indeed,” agreed Holmes, nodding and surveying the damage that four spinster ladies, one enterprising and highly exclusive lady’s companion-housekeeper, a box of puppies, and no fewer than three batches of Swedish saffron buns had done to our cottage. “I say we leave it all until tomorrow.”

“I second the motion, provided we make certain all the doors and windows are shut and bolted against any furry interlopers who want to have a party of their own.”

Holmes hummed and went to the sitting room and the gramophone player.

As I removed my apron, romantic strains filled the kitchen.

Holmes returned and swept me up in his arms. He danced me round the small space, singing softly in my ear. 

_“Let’s begin where we began so long ago_

_when we were young and didn’t know,_

_just how far we’d go,_

_together._

_Let’s begin where we began,_

_you and me, each taking the other’s hand,_

_a show of blood,_

_a curious flood_

_of feeling dear._

_Who knew then that we’d be here?_

_Hand-in-hand,_

_beginning where we began.”_


	27. Venerate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson travel to country manor where a murder has taken place.
> 
> **This is based on _The Honjin Murders_ by Seishi Yokomizo and should be consider SPOILERS for that work. The detective in the story is named Kosuke Kindaichi.**
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables: 50 Tables: prompt .12 Venerate.

Once a detective, always a detective. Even in my so-called dotage, I could not resist a puzzle, and so it was that Watson and I—for now I would not leave him behind on a case even if by some fleeting madness he assented to the separation—found ourselves the guests of the Willow family following the murders of the oldest son and his betrothed.

The murder had taken place in a folly which was located near the northern edge of the vast estate. There was a clear path from the main house to the structure, made even more clear by the foot traffic of police.

I had been allowed to examine the scene and its environs earlier in the day, and I had questioned the family members afterwards. I had begged off dinner, allowing Watson to uphold the social niceties, while I retreated to my assigned bedroom to ponder the case and smoke.

Watson kept me company for while after returning from dinner, but I soon requested he retire to his own adjoining room, which he did.

I smoked and thought and thought and smoked. My thoughts strayed as the cloud thickened, but they always seemed to wander back to the same notion.

 _There had been no footprints in the snow_.

Hours passed. Finally, I put on my Inverness and boots, took up my walking stick and lantern, and made my way through the moonlight to the folly. 

I did another tour of the exterior, then settled myself in the room and let the pieces fall into place.

“Mister Holmes.”

“Ah, Master Trip.”

“Your lack of surprise humbles and infuriates me.”

“A common state for you, I expect, as the third son of an esteemed family. Arrogance humiliated. Rage ignited. You did your best to conceal your knowledge of my professional career, but I was not entirely convinced. How could I be? There is only one of me, but admirers such as yourself are many. I know the signs. But, please, tell me how you did it.”

“I did nothing.”

“One genius to another, tell me. Or shall I tell you?”

“To think I used to venerate you! You were once great, but now, you are nothing but doddering old fool. Oh, go ahead. Tell me how I killed my brother and the woman he was going to marry.”

“Your brother could not bear the shame of his betrothed’s secret. A more mature man would have called off the wedding and scandal be damned. A more compassionate man would have forgiven her. He decided to kill her and himself.”

“Ridiculous, but even if true, nothing to do with me.”

“He had your fragile ego, but he did not have your acumen. He needed some specialised advice on how to pull it off. He asked his brother, the one who memorised passages of detective fiction and newspaper accounts of crime and trial records, the one who studied police methods in careful detail, to help him. You knew what he was doing, though I daresay he couched it in abstract, hypothetical terms. He had the idea, and you made his idea much better.”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you could. Because it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to commit the perfect murder and never bloody your hands. To show how clever you are.”

“You’re babbling.”

“No. I never babble. Your studies should tell you that. Two words sum it up nicely: Thor Bridge. I found the traces of the wire, the rigging, from here,” I pointed to the gap between roof and wall, “all the way to the waterwheel which is not as broken-down as everyone has been led to believe. I’ve found the notches and, what’s more, I found the gun.”

“That’s impossible—”

“Uh-uh-uh, Master Trip. Don’t give yourself away like a common criminal. Not after you worked so hard to bring me here to see your handiwork.”

“Stupid!”

“No, you are not stupid. You are just weak, very weak and very human with the moral compass of a mosquito.”

“Not me, you! Coming out here alone in the middle of the night!”

“Who says I’m alone?”

“I already took care of Doctor Watson.”

My blood turned to ice, but I said evenly, “If you’d studied my cases as closely as your actions suggested, you would know Master Trip that—”

“—a mere scratch is nothing,” growled a disembodied voice in the darkness, a voice I recognised was in pain but very much alive, alive enough to cry, “Now, Kosuke!”

As the bullets rang out, I flattened myself to the ground and swung my walking stick like a sword parallel to the floor in the direction of the murderer.

* * *

“Kosuke,” I said much later, “may I state for the record that your talents are wasted as a butler?”

The Japanese man did not smile but there was a certain proud light in his eyes.

“Master Trip is not the only person in the manor who admires your career, Mister Holmes. I, too, have followed your cases with keen interest.”

“Thank goodness,” I replied dryly. “With devotees like Master Trip’s sort, who needs enemies? But I am, and will remain, in your debt for the rest of my days. In saving Watson’s life, you have saved mine twice over.” I turned to look at the patient in the bed. “You will mend.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command, and he knew it.

“Just a scratch,” he answered quietly, forgetting about his bandaged side and shifting and wincing. “He wasn’t a very good marksman. I led him think he’d given me the slip, but I knew that I would need reinforcements, so I knocked up Kosuke.” 

“I thought I had given you the slip, too, Watson.”

Watson made a snort of derision and shook his head. “But as I’m bandaged up and the police have taken Master Trip into custody and taken all our statements, I think it’s time to plan our return to Sussex. The matriarch of the family has enough to deal with burying two sons. And you, Kosuke, will you stay with the Willows?”

“I had thought to return to Japan after the first of year. I think, well, to be frank I am thinking about becoming a detective myself.”

“Any chance we can persuade you to spend a few days in Sussex?” I asked. “I will need some help caring for my invalid friend here, and you and I can discuss your new profession.”

“Oh, sir! Thank you, sir!”


	28. Over. [Rating: Teen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenes from the night of the Christmas pageant. 
> 
> The poem is a jueju [Chinese poetic form]. The first 100 words were also written for Day 16 of DW Advent Drabbles: [paper lanterns](https://adventdrabbles.dreamwidth.org/327827.html). Also for the DW Inspiring Tables prompt .18: Over.
> 
> Note: this continues from the previous chapter where Watson was shot.

**_overhead, our starry night_ **

**_bits of paper, drops of fuel_ **

**_constellations of wishes_ **

**_eyes lifted but fingers twined_ **

* * *

“Doctor Watson, what a magnificent idea!”

“Sounds like you’re forgiven for not playing Father Christmas in the church pageant,” whispered Holmes when Mrs. Matthews had bustled off.

“One of the few perks of getting shot,” I replied, touching my slinged arm.

We watched the host of paper lanterns filled the winter night’s sky.

“I think you enjoyed creating the prototype for the lantern, Holmes, tinkering with the design.” 

“One never loses a taste for explosions.”

His fingers twined in mine and squeezed.

* * *

“Did you put a write a wish inside your lantern before sending it up, Holmes?” I asked as we walked home.

“No.”

“Neither did I.”

“There was no need. I have and have had all that I could wish for, my dear man.”

“My thought exactly. When I sat down to do it, I discovered that my wishing days are over. I simply want to enjoy what is, what was, and not give too much consideration to what might be. But I say, it was a lovely way to end the night, wasn’t it?”

“Splendid. And I must commend you on your foresight to suggest the lantern release be scheduled immediately after the pageant, otherwise your event would’ve upstaged that little production even more than it did.”

“I saw you yawning, Holmes!”

“In my defence, it was a very warm room.”

* * *

“It was a lovely night, but I am glad it’s over, Watson.”

I hummed.

He slipped beneath the many blankets and made a noise. “Must we really have so many hot water bottles, my dear man?”

“I was cold!”

He grunted. “And if I offer an alternative source of heat, might we dispense with one or two of these bedfellows?”

“I suppose,” I protested coyly and turned my face to the wall. He curled behind me and said softly,

“All week, Watson, I have been testing the boundaries of combustion…”

I snickered. He continued.

“…fiddling with oils…”

“Setting things ablaze,” I interjected.

“…tongues of fire, my dear man, tongues of fire…”

“Not to say sparks.”

“…oh, yes, so many sparks…”

“A few too many sparks.”

“…sending delicate works of beauty up in flame...”

“And the curtains, but no mind.”

I rolled towards him, grinning. He pulled me closer and, with utmost care for my injured side, slid over me.


	29. Immediate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson wants Holmes to open his Christmas gift early. Warning: **angst and **a very ill Watson**.**
> 
> **For DW Inspiring Tables: 50 prompts: 14. Immediate.**

“Holmes!”

I’d just returned from the train station with Kosuke, our Japanese house guest who had become something of a paid nurse companion to Watson as the latter recovered from a gun shot wound.

Kosuke had made a trip to London to arrange his return to his home country. He’d also, he informed me on the ride back to the cottage, taken the liberty of purchasing various teas, herbs, and other medicaments known to his culture which might aid Watson in his convalescence.

Though originally on a swift mend, Watson had taken a sharp downturn two days prior. All signs pointed to an infection.

“Why are you up, my dear man?” I asked when Kosuke and I returned.

Watson greeted Kosuke, who passed into kitchen, then turned to me. His eyes were bright, far too bright, and his voice was harsh to the point of pleading.

“Holmes, your Christmas gift is in the shed, wrapped and labeled.”

I studied his soiled slippers. “Have you been out?”

He didn’t seem to hear me.

“You know, I shall fetch it and give it to you this very moment,” he said.

“Watson! You shouldn’t have. It’s been a very long time since you and I exchanged gifts at this time of year, and even so, it’s four days until Christmas Eve. It can wait.”

Watson shook his head stubbornly. “I found something ages ago in London. It was perfect.” He pressed his lips together. “I want to give it to you now. I must give it to you now. This very moment.”

I was alarmed. “There’s no immediate need,” I protested

His wild eyes met mine, and my heart broke.

“There might be, my dear man. I’m not feeling well at all. I might not have four days, and these fevers are so disorienting. While I still have my faculties…”

It was my turn to plead. “Watson, please.”

“I want to see your face, Holmes. I want to surprise you.” He fiddled with the lapels of my coat. “One more time.”

There was a lump in my throat, and I could not speak for a moment.

I sniffed and tried to pull myself together. “Very well, but I am going to wrap it again and open it again _in front of you_ in four days’ time.”

“Good,” he breathed. Suddenly depleted of energy, he released his grip on me.

I could only gasp with horror, but Kosuke, who had just entered the sitting room with a discreet cough, caught Watson before he crumpled to the floor.

* * *

“My dear Watson, you’ve outdone yourself. This is a lovely walking stick.” I held up the item and smiled.

“Look, it isn’t just that. There is also an umbrella inside the shaft.”

“Indeed?” A twist of the handle confirmed this.

“And a sword,” added Watson. “And a butterfly net. And a ruler. And a flute. And a pipe with a stand.”

Careful dissembling revealed an assorted number of weapons, instruments, and tools.

“I have never seen anything like it!” I cried, letting the full, genuine wonder I felt manifest on my face and in my tone. I looked up and Kosuke, too, had an expression of appreciative awe on his normally impassive visage.

Watson crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Can you imagine if you’d had something like that back in the old days? I saw it and thought of you at once.”

“I’ll never get your limits, Watson. Thank you for a gift as special as its presenter.”

Watson let out a long, satisfied sigh and allowed himself to be led back to bed.


	30. East.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By Watson's sickbed, Holmes recounts a case to Kosuke.
> 
> This is a re-telling of "Cambric Tea" by Marjorie Bowen (one of the most often anthologised Christmas mysteries, I think) and should be considered **SPOILERS** for that work.
> 
> So this is the first of (I hope) four chapters which will feature a different Christmas mystery from some of the most famous Christmas mystery short stories. 
> 
> For the DW Inspiring Tables: 50 prompts: .32: East.

“In truth, the type of person who is willing to destroy themselves so that they may also destroy others is rare and shocking. That is why, I suspect, comparatively, they abound so much in fiction.”

I was speaking quietly to Kosuke so as not to wake the sleeping Watson.

Kosuke and I were at Watson’s bedside after having turned the sitting room into a temporary sick room. My beloved was recovering from a gunshot wound, and though originally on the mend, a sudden infection had laid him precariously low. We were giving him the best of medicine, Eastern and Western, and now it was a matter of waiting to see the effects of our treatments.

Kosuke Kindaichi was an intelligent and brave young man who had been working as butler at a residence where a specimen of the rare type of person I mentioned had recently committed a murder-suicide. I had solved the case, but Watson had been shot at the end of the investigation.

Kosuke was to remain houseguest at our Sussex cottage for the Christmas holidays, that is, until he realised his plan of returning to his native Japan at the first of year. He was also serving as a paid nurse attendant on Watson, providing some much-needed relief in regard to Watson’s care.

Kosuke had expressed an interest in pursuing consulting detective work as a career when he returned to his native country, and as neither he nor I found ourselves desirous of rest on that particular night in late December, I had proposed to expound upon some interesting but unpublished cases. He had accepted his role as audience with alacrity.

He was drinking his tea and I was drinking mine when I began the first tale. 

“I suppose you could say this case came to us from the East for it had its origins in India. It started off as a common place story. A young woman threw over her poor suitor for a rich one, went off to India, and married. After seven years, she returned to England with her wealthy husband. It wasn’t a happy marriage.”

“Meanwhile, the poor suitor became a doctor and trained under Watson. One Christmas Eve, Watson received a desperate message from this doctor. Holroyd was his name. Holroyd said he needed something analysed for arsenic, and he wasn’t up to doing it himself. Watson agreed to meet him at Barts laboratory, and having nothing going at that moment, I went along.”

“I did the analysis while Holroyd recounted the whole story to Watson and myself. Holroyd said he had been summoned professionally by a man unknown to him, Sir Henry Strangeways. This man claimed that his wife was poisoning him with arsenic in his cambric tea in order to be with her lover. His evidence of the affair was love letters confiscated. The wife turned out to be Holroyd’s former sweetheart, whom Holroyd hadn’t seen for a decade.”

“The sample did contain arsenic. I was intrigued. Watson and I volunteered to return with Holroyd to Strangeways, and Holroyd agreed.”

“I remember church bells ringing as we crossed the threshold. They were practising for Christmas Day, I suppose, but Watson felt, or so he wrote afterwards in his journal, that the bells were heralding the arrival of truth, breaking into the thick dream-like miasma which had settled in that dreary house. He has always had a fanciful way about him.”

I paused in my narrative to bestow a loving glance on my beloved, then continued my tale.

“Watson and Holroyd went up to see Sir Henry while I busied myself interviewing Sir Henry’s secretary Garth Deane. Deane and I sparred verbally for a while, but I finally won some begrudging respect from him. I offered him passage back to India and my guarantee not to let the matter stain him if he told the whole truth of what was happening under that roof.”

“Sir Henry, as it turned out was one of those rare types, which count among their numbers the elder son of your former place of employment and Mrs. Maria Gibson, she of Thor Bridge, that is, those will destroy themselves to destroy others. Sir Henry was, in fact, poisoning himself with arsenic in the cambric tea in order to implicate his wife and Holroyd. He had been plotting ever since he had found love letters, more than ten years old, mind you, and written well before his marriage, among his wife’s possessions. He had gone so far as to bribe Deane to put packets of arsenic in his wife’s sewing bag. The bribe was to be found in Sir Henry’s will, the provisions of which the foolish lad hadn’t even seen for himself!”

“I presented myself to Sir Henry. Such ego! Such blindness! He believed himself so clever that when I said I had come to ensure justice was served and that his wife’s guilt was irrefutable, he believed me. I was, in fact, hunting for the will. I found it. It had nothing in it for the secretary, and when the young man realised the full implications of what he’d done and how he’d been duped, he was more than willing to cooperate.”

“Sir Henry, I am happy to say, was carried away, alive and spitting vitriol, by police on Christmas Day. The church bells were ringing in earnest. I remember them clearly.”

“After the court case, Garth Deane, Mollie Strangeways, and Bev Holroyd went East, that is, to India, together, and if this is anything to go by,” I rose and went to the mantelpiece and plucked a card decorated with a splendidly gilded elephant, “they are doing well.”

I handed Kosuke the card and he studied the exterior and the message within.

“This cambric tea?” asked Kosuke, frowning.

“Hot water, milk, sugar, and a dash of tea. Sometimes called ‘nursery tea.’”

Kosuke looked thoughtful at my cup of dark brown liquid and his, of green. Then he said,

“Nursery tea for infantile thinking.”

“Precisely.”


	31. West.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes tells Kosuke the tale of a pearl necklace.
> 
> This is based on a Lord Peter Wimsey by Dorothy L. Sayers called "The Necklace of Pearls" and should be considered **SPOILERS** for that work. 
> 
> For the Inspiring Tables: 50 Prompts: 33. West.

“My first story had its origins in the East,” I said. “My second has its origins in the West, specifically, in America. Watson and I found ourselves one Christmas staying with an American family in Somerset, the patriarch being a wealthy man by the name of Septimus Shale. The Shales decided that their first Christmas in their new home would be a traditional English Christmas, even if there was nothing traditionally English about themselves, so they invited many guests and went all out in the manner of Dickens in terms of food, decorations, and entertainment. There were all the traditional delicacies on the table in huge quantities as well as handsome stockings hung and a Yule log in every fireplace. Holly and ivy were draped on anything that would stand still and an enormous chandelier full of mistletoe hung in the ballroom.” 

“Now, the daughter of the family was named Margaret, and it was her father’s custom to give her a lovely pearl on her birthday. At the time of my story, Margaret was twenty-one years old and wearing a beautiful and valuable pearl necklace.”

“In the evening, we played games. Charades and musical chairs and so forth. Not to my taste, but Watson enjoyed himself, and I enjoyed his joy. And at some point, however, Shale asked his daughter where her necklace was. She reported that she had taken it off during one of the games and put it on a table.”

“Well, it wasn’t there. An extensive search was instituted, and the necklace couldn’t be found. Everyone was asked to turn out their pockets. Nothing. I was put on the scent, as it where, and the clue that revealed everything was a pin that I found.”

“A pin?” echoed Kosuke. “What kind of pin?”

“The kind of pin that collectors of butterflies and other insects use to mount their specimens.”

Kosuke hummed thoughtfully.

“Yes,” I said. “Are you familiar with mistletoe?”

Kosuke rubbed his chin and then looked over his shoulder and pointed at the ball hanging near the front entrance.

“Yes, indeed.”

“Clever,” said Kosuke, rising and walking toward the mistletoe ball until he was directly below it, looking up. “The berries do look like pearls.”

“They are poisonous, too. Not enough to kill, except, possibly in rare cases of small children and animals. I found all twenty-one pearls stealthily hidden among the mistletoe berries in the greenery decorating the chandelier, and one of the chairs bore the faint imprint of a man’s shoe. That and a pair of pocket scissors in one of the guest’s pockets told me who the culprit was.”

“I am afraid that the resolution of the story is similar. The family came from the West and to the West they returned. That summer, Mister Shale was urgently recalled to America; two months later, the whole family joined him. As far as I know, they never came back to England. They had their one and only traditional English Christmas—”

“Complete with puzzle and puzzle solved!” croaked Watson from the bed.

A smile bloomed on my lips. “Hello, Watson.”

He smiled weakly. “May I tell Kosuke about the Christmas ghost?”

“Yes, but if you get tired, I’ll help you out.”

“You don’t believe in it!”

“Nevertheless.” I tut-tutted. “Would you like some tea, Watson?”

“It’s not cambric, is it?”

“Perish the thought! I’ve already told him that one.”

Watson grimaced. “Good. Nasty business that. But the ghost is something else!”


	32. North.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Holmes recount an experience with a Christmas ghost.
> 
> This is a re-telling of Carter Dickinson's "Blind Man's Hood" and are **SPOILERs** for that work.
> 
> DW Inspiring Tables: 50 prompts: .30: North.

“We went north that Christmas, to East Anglia, specifically to the family home of my oldest friend Victor Trevor,” I began, wanting Watson to conserve his strength for the portion of the story that was his alone. “Due to unavoidable but tiresome delays we arrived much later than arranged, some three hours later to be exact.”

“The great doors of the house were standing open. The man who ferried us from the station said that the whole household, indeed, the whole village attended a church service from seven to eight, right before he dropped our bags on the ground and drove away, presumably to join his kinfolks and neighbours.”

“So there Watson and I were, summarily abandoned alone on the doorstep of a home I’d only visited once and that many decades earlier. We looked at each other, shrugged, took up our bags, and made for the door.”

“We called out as we entered and got no response. We pushed forward and saw a dining room where it seemed a cold collation was laid out. There was a fire in the fireplace. We called out again. Then a maid appeared.”

“She was a pretty thing, but in an old-fashioned costume. I marveled at this because I couldn’t imagine my old friend insisting on so archaic and theatrical a raiment for his staff. We explained that we were guests of Mister Trevor. She told us, as our chauffeur had, that everyone was at church. I had a strange feeling about her. She seemed out of place, and she was holding what appeared to be a linen pillowcase. I had a sense of foreboding as well as a strong urge to see the rest of the house to make certain that it was, as she said, vacant. On the pretext of depositing our trunks in our rooms, insisting with a filament of truth that I knew my way, I left her and Watson in the library and went to survey the premises. I shot Watson a glance before I left and that was all the communication required for him to know to be on his guard.”

“I heard, before I closed behind me, the young lady’s voice, ‘A doctor? Then I suppose you would like to hear about the tragedy,’ and my dear Watson,” I had to shake my head slowly and smile, “replied, in his best bedside tone, ‘Of course, my dear, please tell me all.’”

Watson sat up in his sickbed, and I was gratified to hear his voice was strong and regular. I excused myself and left Kosuke and Watson in the sitting room, but I could hear Watson as I moved about the cottage.

“She said ‘Mrs. Waycross died in this house. And her murderer died, too. He died on Christmas Eve at this very hour.’ Both our heads turned to the clock on the mantelpiece which promptly chimed half past seven. ‘It was before Mister Trevor’s time, or his father’s, but, still, everyone stays away.’”

“’Begin at the beginning, my dear,’ I said, and she said, ‘The beginning is Mister Wilkes, making love to another man’s wife while desiring an heiress to be his own. Mister Waycross was away overnight in London. Mrs. Waycross was expecting Mister Wilkes to call late that night. She was in her nightgown. A Mister Moody saw her holding a candle and closing the shutters that night. Mister Wilkes, traveling with two men who had insisted on accompanying him from the tavern, had seen the light, too. Telling his companions that he was concerned, he investigated. What he saw was his lover running towards him, tripping on her nightgown, dropping the lamp and breaking it, spilling a small amount of paraffin oil, dropping the candle, and setting herself afire. There was an old medicine bottle filled with more paraffin oil. She fell upon it, and it slashed her throat. He left her to bleed and burn to death. Later, when questioned by police, he would lie, claiming that he saw Mrs. Waycross with an unknown man. There was a bit of charred correspondence arranging an assignation with Mrs. Waycross for that night, but the other party, the unknown man, was never discovered.’”

“’How horrible!’ I exclaimed. She twisted the pillowcase in her lap. ‘This is for Blind Man’s Bluff. Years later, when Mister Wilkes had married his heiress, he returned to this house on Christmas Eve, a guest of a family called Fentons who lived here then. This was just before Mister Trevor bought it. They were playing Christmas games. They used a pillowcase like this for Blind Man’s Bluff. Mister Wilkes was caught in a window seat behind a curtain by a young lady wearing this mask. He died there.’ ‘Of what?’ I asked. ‘Of fright!’ she said with a wicked smile, and that was the last thing I saw before my vision was clouded and I was pitched violently to the floor.’”

“And so I found him,” I said, taking up the tale, “thrashing on the floor of the library with a pillowcase around his head. The fire was cold. He was alone. The feast that we’d both seen laid out in the dining room was not there. I had made a thorough search of the place and gotten lost more than once and there was no one at all in the house, even the maid. She had simply vanished. Watson and I looked at each other, knowing at once that we could never speak of what had happened to anyone. We heard voices from far away, singing voices, caroling voices, and saw, in the distance, Victor Trevor and his merry household returning from church.”

“Later, I made some inquiries locally and did learn of the deaths of Jane Waycross and Jeremy Wilkes, and the maid’s tale did tally with the publicly known particulars of the case. She, of course, knew far more about the former death than was ever reported. Now you can believe us or believe us not, Mister Kindaichi, but here, we still have it.”

I held up the linen sack and offered it to Kosuke for inspection.

He took it and studied it. Finally, he smelled it and when he raised his head and spoke, his eyes were round.

“Paraffin!”


	33. South.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final story of the night.
> 
> This is a re-telling of Carter Dickinson's "Persons or Things Unknown" and should be considered **SPOILERS** for that work. 
> 
> So this is the penultimate story of this collection. For DW Inspiring Tables: 50 prompts: .31 South

“I suppose we have time for one last tale,” I said trying to stifle a yawn. “What shall it be?”

Watson’s eyes shone. “The icicle dagger, Holmes!”

Kosuke raised a curious eyebrow, a gesture he may or may not have acquired during his sojourn among Watson and myself.

“It is that most fantastic and, yes, impossible of notions concerning the perfect murder weapon, the icicle dagger. The idea being you stab your victim,” I pantomimed, “and then the tool simply melts in the sun.” I opened my fist and wiggled my fingers. “It can’t be done, of course. Ice is too fragile. Nevertheless, the myth abounds among the romantic.” I shot a teasing glance at Watson, who replied,

“Guilty. Do go on.”

“We were south that Christmas, the French countryside, with an English family called Radlow. The elderly patriarch had done me a good turn once, and I thought I would pay him the compliments of the season, and naturally, Watson accompanied me. I regretted my decision as soon as I arrived. The house wasn’t comfortable in physicality or atmosphere. I suppose it might have been all right for the seventeenth century, the Radlows seemed not to notice, but for two modern bachelors, well.” I sighed. “The feeling in the house, too, was strained, and I found that this was a result of Radlow’s daughter Marie being the object of two suitors’ desires and due to vacillations and the temperaments of all involved, including her father, it seemed matters were headed toward a crescendo that might include violence.”

“We’d been treated to a picture postcard snow on Christmas Eve, but the weather had warmed, and the day in question, the day after Christmas, what in England would have been Boxing Day, there were lovely icicles hanging from the eaves. Watson pointed them out before and after the incident.”

“That night, Marie Radlow was in what the Radlows archaically called the Withdrawing Room with her preferred suitor of the moment, Monsieur Chêne. They were chatting by candlelight when a Mister Vanning, he was the other suitor, arrived and demanded to see Miss Radlow. A servant brought him to the room, but Radlow, fearing trouble, followed as soon as he’d learned of Vanning’s arrival. Watson and I followed him.”

“And so there was a pretty party outside the door of the Withdrawing Room when it closed. We heard voices, then a commotion: candlesticks being turned over, thrashing, then the young lady’s screams. The door had been bolted. It was forced. Chêne was dead, stabbed some dozen times. There was blood on Mary’s dress as if someone had wiped a blade clean on it, and Vanning’s clothes. Marie fainted. Radlow wanted to throw water on her from a glass pitcher on the sideboard in the room, but Watson immediately overruled this and took charge of her and had her carried downstairs. Vanning was held, protesting that he had no weapon on him. A cursory search of him and the room confirmed this. I made certain the room was sealed until the police arrived.”

“I like to think that if Vanning had known I was in residence, he wouldn’t have tried his little scheme. As it turned out, the authorities had heard of me and allowed me to assist them in their official search of the room.”

“And?” Watson prompted, his eyes still glittering like moonlight on snow. I reached to touch his forehead and, finding it cool, was reassured that it was a storyteller’s joy and not an infectious fever which was inflaming him.

“And I daresay Vanning expected his hiding place to go unnoticed and his unusual choice of weapon to go unrecorded. The dagger was not ice but rather a transparent cousin. Glass. I found a glass dagger dropped in the glass pitcher. Vanning had crafted it himself for the purpose. Strong enough to stab and not shatter yet invisible in the poor lighting of that antiquated home.”

Watson clapped his hands together, and Kosuke smiled and nodded thoughtfully and even made a little ceremonial bow in my direction.

“We left the next day for Paris, and that was our last Christmas south of Dover,” finished Watson. “I don’t think we could top it. Icicle dagger!”

The three of us said our good nights to each other, but when Kosuke’s snoring could be heard whispering through the flat, I tiptoed back to the sitting room to kiss my Watson a very happy Christmas.


	34. Hope.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson look hopefully at the new year. 
> 
> For DW Inspiring Tables: 50 prompts: .40: Hope. Apologies to Emily Dickinson for a play of her 'hope is a thing with feathers.' 
> 
> **A big thank you to all my gentle readers. This is the end of the challenge. Hope you enjoyed the time spent with Holmes and Watson in Sussex. All the best to each and every one of you in the new year.**

Holmes and I waved as the train pulled out of the station. Then we turned and left, arm in arm.

“I hope one day we are reading accounts of Kosuke’s detective adventures. In fact, I advised him to find a chronicler who excelled in English for that express purpose. Selfish, I know.”

“I advised him to do the same. I also told him to find a collaborator he could trust, someone whose skills complimented his, someone who had his best interest at heart. I told him he would damn lucky to find someone like you, Watson.”

“Oh, Holmes.” I squeezed his arm and nodded at the handsome cane in his other hand. “How goes the new walking stick?”

“Perfect,” he replied, giving it a cavalier twirl. “There’s Jacob with the cart. Shall we go home directly? I don’t want to overtire you on your first outing after convalescence.” 

“I wouldn’t mind a stroll about the village. Maybe tell him to come back in an hour?”

Holmes shot me a mother hen look. “Watson.”

“All right. Half an hour, then. It’s a gorgeous day even if it is almost January.”

Thirty minutes later, we were speeding along, both brimmed full of chatter.

“Seeing Mrs. LeStrange with Bumpkin in a pram!” I cried.

Holmes tapped the letter in his hand. “News from Miss Marple that a friend of hers has seen a murder on a train, and she’s put Lucy Eylesbarrow on the scent!”

“The bill for our Christmas duck from the ladies of Little Paddock,” I countered, holding up an envelope. “They’ll give us a discount if we agree to take one of their kittens.”

Holmes looked pleadingly at me. “Please, no, Watson.”

“No. I’ll pay in full.” I sighed. “And the New Year ahead of us. I’m full of hope, Holmes.” 

“As am I.”

“Oh, Holmes, look!”

Holmes followed my pointing to the pair of colourful butterflies skipping playfully across the meadow. “What a hopeful harbinger of spring and good things.”

“Jacob! Stop!” called Holmes.

“Holmes, what on earth--?”

“No time like the present to try out my present,” he said, fixing me with his most mischievous of grins.

He quickly dissembled his walking stick, extracted the butterfly net, hopped out of the cart like a man half his age, and scampered after the winged insect.

Jacob pushed his hat farther back on his head and said,

“Mister Holmes chasing after butterflies?”

“Yes, he is, bless him. You know, Jacob, hope is a thing with fluttering gossamer wings.”

“As you say, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
